


Baggage Claim

by General_Button



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Breastfeeding, Brief mentions of infidelity, M/M, Mary and John are happy together in this, Mental/Nervous Breakdown, Mention of slight Dub-Con, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Season three compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip and Sherlock have never seen eye to eye. Fast forward two years; add heat, hormones, and baby into a mix. Phillip just wants to come out on the other side with his sanity intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In a series of snapshots, we see their relationship unfold. A huge thank you to the best beta in the world, kenopsia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, my tiny sailboat. This takes place during the ep of s3 where Sherlock leaves Phillip alone in his apartment after his big 'reveal'. A bunch of dialogue was also taken from the show.

_“He’s dead. He really is dead…and gone.”_

 Clear as a bell, Lestrade’s words rang sharply in his head. Phillip watched as a sticky note came loose and fell to the edge of the table. _Sherlock Holmes, Berlin_. There was a date and a few scribbled words that didn’t make sense like they once might have.

He remembered how devastating it had been to see Greg, the one man who had always listened to him, believed in him, look at him like he was crazy.

Phillip been right all along.

* * *

 

 _I’m not insane, I’m not_ , he thought with a sharp edge of hysterical glee. _Sherlock Holmes is alive. He’s alive. He’s come back._

God, the excitement of being right was like nothing he’d ever felt before. What a rush. Was this how Sherlock always felt?

 _“I know you want him back,"_   _Lestrade had said, sympathy threaded deeply into his voice. "And I know why you want that to happen.”_

 _If only he could see me now,_  he thought. What did _he_ know? Phillip had been the one to track Sherlock’s movements. _Phillip_ spent hours pouring over every news site he could reach with his fingertips, making connections until he slept from only sheer exhaustion alone.

His hands shook as he looked at a newspaper still desperately clinging to the wall, thoughts tumbling inside him, the thread of his thoughts threatening to snap. He was distracted by the way that  _Sherlock Holmes_ had been anagrammed over the expanse. The name was seared onto his brain. But Phillip was right; he was here, and he was listening to Phillip, _believing him._

Phillip had showed him everything he knew, explained in excruciating detail all the work that he'd done. And he'd—they had—

"Haha! If you’d pulled that off…” he said, pulling his brain back from the recesses of his mind and grabbing onto the earlier thread. His chest puffed with false confidence. Heat still burned inside him, residual but no less terrifying. He was sweating underneath his jumper. “Even if we did spend some time together, I’m the last person you’d tell the truth to—"

Phillip turned around, expecting to find Sherlock lounging on his sofa, half naked and smoking a cigarette as he had been moments ago. Instead, there was no one. Nothing.

He blinked, mouth falling open in shock. Something inside his throat went painfully tight.

" _It’s so obviously him!_  " If _you know how to spot the signs.”_

_"Signs? Anderson, look—“_

_"It had to be him, do you not see?_ ”

_"Anderson, I see you lost a good job fantasizing about a dead man.”_

_"_ _I’m right! You have to believe me. You do believe me, right?”_

 

The walls were screaming at him. Everyone was screaming at him. Sherlock Holmes looked at him with a nasty smile and no—no, that wasn’t right.

_Lestrade looked at him like…like…_

_No one believed me. I’m not crazy, see? I can show you_. _Why don’t you see?_

 _"_   _You take care, okay?” said Lestrade, his voice soft. Like he was speaking to a child._

Phillip rubbed over the spot on his neck, repressing a shiver. He remembered Sherlock’s lips pressing there, firm but soft. There was no mark, but that didn’t matter. Sherlock wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He was _sure_ that he remembered. He couldn’t fabricate something like that!

He looked at the last two years of his life laid in front of him and swallowed hard. A sharp sense of dread settled in his stomach.

Could he have?

He whimpered, falling back against the wall. Paper crinkled loudly. That sound, god, that _sound._ He needed to stop hearing it _NOW._

_"Y_ _ou’re mad,” Sally whispered, prying his fingers off her arm. He hadn’t realized he was holding onto her so tight._

_“You believe me, right?”_

_Her lips trembled as she turned away. “Get some rest, Phil. I’ll call you tomorrow, ‘kay?”_

He lunged for the posters and clippings on his wall. He was grunting, his fingers slippery against the weight of Sherlock’s name. _Sherlock_ _bloody fucking Holmes_.

He tore apart a clipping from India. The shreds weren’t coming apart fast enough. The words kept moving but he wasn’t and he couldn’t follow.

His back hit the wall. Phillip twisted. It rained pins and paper. He slid to the floor, his jumper riding up. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate when he tried to push it back down.

This was inexplicably funny. He started laughing and laughing, curled up on the floor, until it stopped being funny and started being sad.

* * *

Once he’d safely downloaded the video onto his laptop and played the files from just a few hours ago, Phillip smashed the camera against the wall, now cleared of debris.

“I’m not insane,” he said loudly, clearly, willing himself to believe it. “Sherlock Holmes is just a dick. Everything’s going to be,” he focused on breathing, “fine.”

He felt better after that. He felt like his connection to reality was still a little unstable, but the video had helped. That was Sherlock speaking to him, looking pompous and gorgeous even after two years in hiding. There was even a bite mark on his throat, from where Phillip hadn’t been so careful.

No, he wasn’t mad in any sense of the word. He was _angry_. Furious. 

 _“I knew it! I knew you were alive,"_ his recording said. He sounded so  _hopeful_ that Phillip wanted to alternately punch himself and Sherlock in the face.

How had it got like this? He had been so elated to have been right all along, and Sherlock had seemed so impressed, although he did his best to pretend he wasn’t.

Then there was—heat. Phillip felt his face flush, the tacky sweat of heat still clinging to his skin. Maybe the reason Sherlock had put up with him and then run off without another word was because they ended up in bed together but then realized how ridiculous a notion that was. Sherlock was an alpha and Anderson a beta in a heat that was, first and foremost,  _nothing_ like an omega's; _w_ _ho was I to turn down a proposition?_  

Suddenly all of Phillip’s rage left him and he sunk into the sofa, feeling bereft. It was like all the anger he’d worked up had leaked out of him at the moment and left him hanging there, a loose nail that had nowhere to go but down.

As always, his thoughts turned towards Sherlock _._ The detective was clearly no idiot.

Sherlock had made him believe, even for a few minutes, it was all in his head. The memory of that smug little smile Sherlock flashed made anger burn low in his belly. The signs—there had to be signs. Little, subtle clues that Sherlock was so fond of.

Sherlock had to know. As well travelled as that man was, there was no way he hadn’t deduced that Phillip wasn’t well, right? Phillip tried to remember the citations his roommate at uni told him on repeat during exams. _Mental breakdowns don’t spring on people, Andy. It takes a long time of stress to get to that point._

_"You believe me, don’t you?"_

He scrubbed his fingers through his hair furiously, attempting to dislodge the memory. God, he’d spend his heat with Sherlock. He’d said things to the man—ridiculous, outrageous things that made Sherlock grin like a loon. Like it was all just one big joke to him.

Either that, or Phillip’s imagination was running away with him again. He was furious and needed someone to blame—Sherlock was an easy target.

He slumped against the arm of the sofa. On the edge of his desk sat his laptop, which was frozen on the image of Sherlock’s smug face. With little else to distract him, he was faced with either confronting the fact that he had unsafe sex with Sherlock (god knows where that mouth had been), or staring at a photo like a man obsessed. Phillip settled with glaring at the picture until his eyes burned.

 _Fuck Sherlock Holmes_.

Having stared long enough to garner enough hatred, Phillip rubbed his eyes and approached the desk, moving his mouse until it responded. Left-click, drag. His mouse hovered over the bin icon long enough that it opened the file location. There were a few photos and web links displayed; they made him feel uncomfortably exposed, like he was looking at his life from someone else’s eyes.

When he moved his hand away, the video appeared at the bottom of the list, simply titled, “thetruth.mp4”. Phillip right-clicked on the icon and let it sit, chewing on his lip.

A part of him really wanted to delete it. Another part of him was telling him that he really _was_ insane. This was proof of Sherlock’s adventures. _Proof_ that he was alive.

But what if it wasn’t real? Paranoid that it was a figment of the unsound mind, Phillip dragged it onto the desktop and waited until the video began, holding his breath. He let it when Sherlock’s face appeared and watched as Sherlock spun a story for him, looking all the world like he hadn’t been presumed dead for two years.

“Fuck,” he hissed. His fist kissed the wooden surface of the table.

* * *

A few weeks past and Phillip was on the road to his recovery. One breakdown didn’t mean that he needed official treatment, but two years of paranoia and sitting in a dark room thinking about one person twenty-four hours a day meant that he was more cautious of any future hobbies.

To start off, he had purchased a new flat. While that _felt_ monumental, it wasn’t too far from his old one, and it was only slightly smaller; the biggest uptick was that it provided the comforts of a memory-free zone.

He got into contact with Greg and made mention of reopening his case, without any real hope.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure!” Greg sounded more optimistic about the fact that he was calling at all rather than getting his job back. After all, that ship had sailed and crashed in the middle of the ocean long ago.

“You sound good,” he broached tentatively.

“I am.” Phillip was surprised to find that he meant it. “I wanted you to know that I’m not chasing after Sherlock anymore. I know he was—is gone. You were right,” he lied. It felt sour on his tongue, but he certainly couldn’t tell him the truth if he wanted Lestrade to even consider his case, friendship or otherwise. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the hell I gave you over these years. I know you just wanted to move on, and I kept dragging it back to the surface.”

“It’s fine,” Greg said. He sounded like he meant it. Phillip was almost certain he did. “Just good you’re back, yeah? Could use a pint later, if you’re open to it. Catching up would be nice.”

Phillip recited the address to his new flat and they both didn’t say another word about Sherlock, even though it hung in the back of both of their minds. Or Maybe it was just Phillip who felt like he was always in his head. When news came to light, Phillip was going to be _so_ smug. At least he had that to look forward to.

It was a struggle to find a job after being out of the market for so long. Maybe he should have been trying harder; no, he _knew_ he should have been trying harder, but he found himself losing his energy much faster than before. He wasn’t out of money, but he couldn’t afford any luxuries, and that included the healthy stuff. His bills were paid by what money he had saved from years with the Met, so he relied on long-term saving and skimping on his meals occasionally when he worried that something more pressing might come up. The strange boughts of sickness didn’t help any.

The only _true_ downside to his life appeared when he looked on the telly that very week. For days the news would talk of nothing but Sherlock “boffin” Holmes, both praising and criticizing his actions against Moriarty. He could at least console himself with the thought that he had been the first to know; the first to suspect, even. If Phillip was forced to constantly see Sherlock’s smug face plastered on every paper in the country until he was sick of it—literally, sometimes (though that had less to do with Sherlock and more to do with him avoiding seeing someone about his illness)—he wished he could have got some credit.

After which it was only inevitable that Phillip visited the clinic. All his attempts to diagnose himself had been met his failure, his mind suspiciously blank. Aside from his bladder deciding that it wanted to throw a tantrum every hour, he was plagued with vomiting and lethargy. The flu wasn’t in season and it would have either escalated or slowed its torment after weeks of ravaging his body. There was no logical reason for his ailments.

At Tesco’s, the bright colors on the omega-brand items caught his eye. Among them were pads, tampons, plan B pills, and pregnancy tests. He almost picked up a certain test product until he remembered that he was being abnormally paranoid and instead decided to visit the clinic.  _That_ was logical.

* * *

Surrounded by white walls and a small crowd of the fellow ill, he felt suspiciously like he was at a mental hospital. He wasn’t sure if he’d always been this paranoid, or it was a side effect of the last two years. He couldn’t stop jumping whenever the door past the waiting area opened. Shying away from the concerned glances of those around him, he buried his face in a magazine. He just needed to wait for the short queue to dribble out so he could get his turn.

The walls were blue in the examination room. It made something in Phillip relax so that when he described the symptoms, he didn’t stumble over his words. The doctor just stared at him, a curious light in her eyes.

“So, nausea, fatigue, and you think a strange hormonal response. Just for clarification, you’re a beta, Mr. Anderson?” she asked, tapping her pen against the counter. He nodded. Hadn’t he already put it on the clipboard?

“I suspect it’s a bad case of the flu,” he rationalized, willing her to believe him, “but the day before yesterday I could hardly leave the bed. I’ve just… not been feeling well.” And he was babbling. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to worry about. That’s why we’re here.” She smiled. “So, back to my questions, if you will. Were you sexually active before the symptoms began?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked this time, too quickly. He knew very well what it had to do with; any doctor would ask the same thing.

“Please answer the question,” she urged. “I think it will help us come to a conclusion.”

 _Us_. A classic way to make him feel included, like he was in control. There was a meaning of his symptoms he couldn’t swallow.

“I was.”

“Was it an alpha?”

Phillip closed his eyes. “Yes. Male alpha.”

“And was this during heat?”

“I was in beta heat, yes. I didn’t have any contraceptives or protection, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t contract anything from him. He’s very clean.”

She wrote something down on her clipboard. “You’re an adult, Mr. Anderson. I’m not here to criticize you. Would you mind telling me when your last heat was?”

“Just about a month ago,” Phillip answered. “I’m not very regular; I usually get them every few months, if at all. What do you think,” he looked at her nametag, “Sheryl?”

“Well, it’s only a theory, but if you would allow me, I think that a few tests may clear this up.” Her smile was a brilliant white. Phillip felt panic claw at his chest.

“Just tell me that it’s not what I think it is,” he pleaded, “I may vomit for different reasons.”

Her face was filled briefly with sympathy before it smoothed into professional blankness. “It appears you’ve come to the same conclusion. Congratulations, Mr. Anderson. I think you’re a rare—but not unheard of—case of beta pregnancy. The symptoms are too common to ignore.” She began rifling through the drawers in search of something. “As you may know, betas release a hormone during heat that is similar to an omega's, and may—very rarely, you can imagine—result in the release of an ovum. It’s just a theory, but I'm almost sure that we're on the right track. We’ll run a few more tests, just to be sure.”

She sounded incredibly too pleased. This was not good news. Technically male betas  _could_  get pregnant, but the fertility in male betas was severely lower than that of omegas. If he remembered correctly, the percentage was somewhere around three.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyelid and sighed. She asked him to pee in a cup.


	2. Chapter 2

Phillip was too busy in the coming months to think too hard about Sherlock’s new-found televised fame. His presence on the television was a mere blip on the face of his coming responsibility. Sherlock himself, the person, the alpha, however, was another story. Phillip was having a baby; his baby.

After the initial terror seized him and he sat in the loo, hyperventilating for a while, the feeling of dread had settled and Phillip was almost content. Then, like tiny bubbles he felt bursts of giddiness erupt inside him. He’d always assumed that his wife and he would have had children at some point, but neither of them had led lives that allowed for such extravagance. If he was honest with himself, the commitment it would take had put him off—rightly so, as they split not a year later.

And it  _wasn’t_  because he cheated on her—which, thanks to Sherlock, the entire police force had believed for months.  _One_  morning spent cleaning up a mess with his best mate and suddenly the two of them were shagging.  _Same deodorant? Give me a break._

He vowed to stop thinking about Sherlock and focus on  _his_  life for a change; like getting a job and buying new cutlery. Baby-proofing his flat.

Phillip’s flat was a small two bedroom apartment with a decently sized kitchenette and living room. The walls of the flat were an ugly grey, but with a little bit of hard work he was beginning to make the place look like something he would like to come home to. Phillip was going to pick his life back up, get a real job, and tell Lily a stork came to him when she asked about her other parent.

If pressed, he would have readily admitted that it was impossible to stop thinking about a man he had obsessed over after two years, and had inadvertently impregnated him. It was a little hard to ignore, that. However, Phillip could pretend, and did so admirably.

He pretended that every time he saw a man with dark curly hair he didn’t immediately think of Sherlock; he pretended that when he saw John at Tesco that there was no reason that Phillip was huddled against the snacks in the snack isle. It was just because John had always intimidated him; it didn’t help that Phillip’s dislike for Sherlock had been met with stony looks from John, and his nasty quips sent the man reeling in admiration.

“Ah, um, excuse me, I just need to get something.”

Phillip let out an undignified yelp. He straightened and spun around to face John, who was giving him a wary look. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t shaved in a good few weeks and he probably smelled exactly like he’d been cleaning his flat from top to bottom.

“I—John. Hi! Here you are, I’ll just.” He hastily stepped back.  _Intimidated, not afraid_. He didn’t know if John got the memo, because his eyes were hard. Phillip could feel sweat clinging to the back of his neck.

Proving to be a colossal idiot Phillip said, “I hear Sherlock’s back,” in a desperate attempt at conversation. John’s gaze didn’t soften.

“Something like that, yeah. He mentioned you in passing. Said you’d have a video…?”

“I have no idea why he would think that? I haven’t seen Sherlock for years. Obviously,” he babbled, face growing warm. “I definitely thought he was dead. We all did.”  _Good chat, gotta go, bye_. Phillip took another step back as John regarded him carefully.

“I heard—that is, Greg mentioned you actually believed otherwise.”

“Greg’s been known to exaggerate things.”

“Mm, I don’t think so. He was very specific about it.”

Was he angry? Phillip honestly couldn’t tell. He reminded himself that he was intimidated, not afraid, and grabbed a random bag of crisps so that he didn’t have to look John in the eye. The words were on the tip of his tongue.  _I’m pregnant. I know Sherlock doesn’t give a fuck, but could you mention it to him?_

John sighed. “I’m mucking this up. Anderson, I just wanted to say thanks.”

Phillip froze. “I’m sorry?”

“For believing in him when no one else would. Even I didn’t—” John stopped, then smiled. It was strained. “I won’t claim to be your friend, but sometimes hearing that someone believed in him back then, it was…good.” John looked like a weight had been lifted on his chest. “He probably won’t say it—he never does—but he appreciates it when there are people behind him. I assume you are, anyway.” John let out a pathetic laugh.

“For what it’s worth, I  _am_  sorry about everything. At the time it was—it felt right.”

John shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly? I don’t blame you. For months I was so angry at you—at everyone, but especially him. He was so smart, so fucking smart. How could he let it get like that? Then I learned that it was his plan all along. He knew where it was going and he planned for it. Don’t kick yourself too hard, alright?”

“You, too, John. Tell Sherlock—you know what, don’t tell him anything. I don’t think he’s really interested in me anymore.”

His words made interest spark in John’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows, silently asking for more, but Phillip waved goodbye and rushed to the checkout without the rest of his groceries, smiling.

Phillip felt like he was floating on the John Watson stamp of approval. 

* * *

Months later, much to his pleasure, Phillip’s plan for the future was beginning to work out in his favour. He got a job teaching forensics classes at a reputable university, and although he missed fieldwork, this was much better than sitting on his arse watching the sunrise every morning. He could sit most of the time—which was especially helpful when his lower back started to ache—and people looked up to him. It was nice feel like he was a part of something important again.

By sixth months, he began to show. His shirts and trousers became too tight, exposing slivers of skin every time he moved, and a couple his students thought he’d become fat because he was a beta and not an omega. There was a very awkward morning session in which he mentioned the pregnancy in passing—mostly to himself—and spent the rest of the period avoiding his student’s questions. Most notably, who was the father?

_You’ve all seen him, probably. He‘s practically a celebrity while I have to strain my back teaching you lot._

By seven months time, he was really pushing his luck with his old clothing and finally bought maternity wear, to his humiliation. It was as if everything he had ingested in the last few weeks decided to manifest in one big pregnancy bump.

“You look…nice,” Greg said cautiously one evening, as if Phillip might explode.

He sighed irritably and carefully situated himself on the sofa. “I’m not going to get angry with you; I know I look like a  _whale_ ,” he whined. It was worse because he was already rather thin, so his stomach stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Oh, come off it. You look great!” Greg was smiling like an idiot at his ill-tempered mood, absolutely eating up his misery.

Phillip sighed. He wanted to be a little angry, but he just didn’t have the energy. Saddled with both schoolwork  _and_  preparing Lily’s room without an alpha or partner taking up his time—not to mention the bloody heart burns and nausea and the fucking  _backaches_ —he could barely get up in the morning.

It was made to seem like this magical experience, being pregnant, but Phillip hated being like this. People looked at him strangely when they didn’t see a mark on his neck. His scent was purely his own, so it wasn’t like he had the ability to pretend. It still wasn’t proper despite the day and age to be a single parent no matter the gender. It didn’t matter that he was fully capable on his own or anything.

“… Phil. You all right?” Greg was staring at him, looking concerned.

Phillip blinked. At some point during their conversation he must have drifted off into his own head. His teeth ached from gnashing them together. Greg looked three seconds from calling for help.

“It’s not the baby, is it? Nothing hurts?”

“No, she’s fine. I’m just tired. Exhausted. I never thought grading papers would be this hard; now I understand why my professors were always late with grading; I never want to see another essay.“

“Oh.” Greg looked surprised. Ignoring everything he’d just said, he clapped his hands together and asked, “It’s a girl?”

“Well, no, not that I know of,” he answered with reluctance. He scratched a spot on his stomach. “I just know. It has to be a girl: I’ve picked her name out and everything.”

Greg laughed charmingly.                     

“Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. Ask Karen. She was  _convinced_  it would be a boy—omega at that—and when it was obvious she was a female at birth, she was furious. Luckily enough we bought neutral colors for all her things at the time, so it wasn’t all that bad.”

“Oh? I admit that the alarming amount of pink out there scares me. I find it hard to believe that  _anyone_  likes that color. My sister  _hated_ pink only because there was so much of it. Threw a fit when she couldn’t get clothes that weren’t pink for her dolls and action figures. Apparently there  _is_  a difference.”

“Sister, huh? You never really talk about family. How’s she doing now?” Greg seemed honestly curious.

 “We don’t talk that much. At all, really. She’s married to some omega in Scotland. She’s an omega, too,” he added. He had always admired her way of breaking the social molds, which was something he could never convince himself to do. "She’s a great person, we just don’t get on very well. If she could see me now…” The very idea was laughable.

“I don’t know.” Phillip shrugged and wiggles his toes. “I can’t even see me now.”

They shared a grin. Phillip rubbed his stomach absently.

“Speaking of the baby, are you still keeping the daddy or mommy to yourself?” Greg’s eyes lit up with mirth. It as a familiar ritual; he would make mad guesses, and Phillip would deny everything. “Was it artificially done? I hear that’s become more popular nowadays. Or maybe you went to one of those clinics that help people get pregnant. Rent a virile alpha for the night and pop one o’ those suckers out.”

Phillip let out an ugly snort. “If I tell you, will you stop?”

“Yes! Are you finally ready to tell me?” Greg turned to face him, appearing excited. Phillip breathed sharply. Actually, he really wasn’t ready for this.

“I take it back. Do we have to do this now? You know, I haven’t offered you a drink. Do you want something? I have tea, water, maybe some milk left over.”

The look Greg gave him as he stood up made him feel uncomfortable.

“I just don’t see why it matters,” he continued, blushing. “It’s none of your business, anyway. There’s no other mommy or daddy. Just me. Isn’t that enough?”

“Anderson. Phillip.” Greg regarded him seriously. “I’m beginning to think that there’s more to this than someone skipping out on you. You  _would_  tell me if anyone forced this on you, wouldn’t you?”

“What?” Phillip laughed. “You think someone forced this on me?”

“I’m serious,” Greg continued. His voice was low and warm; a promise of protection. Sometimes Phillip forgot he was an alpha. “If anyone, and I mean  _anyone_  has done something to do you against your will, I’ll—“

“No!” he exploded. “God, no. I wasn’t forced. If anything,  _he_  was compelled.” Phillip sagged back against the sofa. “I was in one of my heats when he came by.”

“Ah.” There was an awkward pause. “I thought betas couldn’t get pregnant from heat, normally. So it really was an accident? I’d assumed—well, I’m not sure. You’re very secretive about this.”

“It wasn’t exactly planned, as you said. He just showed up and I was in the middle of it, bloody out of my mind in more ways than just that. It’s not like an omega’s heat, but it still hurts. It’s like an itch.” He closed his eyes. “Alphas wouldn’t understand. I was at the end of my rope about the whole Sherlock deal and then he—just appeared out of the bloody wall, handsome as ever. After two years I wasn’t gonna say no to that, was I? Not bloody likely. For a while I thought I imagined the whole thing.”

Greg’s eyes were very wide. Phillip looked up, realized what he said.

“Pretend you did  _not_  just hear that.”

Greg didn’t speak for half a minute. “Phillip, believe me right now. I’m trying, I really am. Give me another minute to process this.” Greg groaned. “Fucking Christ. Fucking Sherlock. I can’t bloody believe…really? You had unprotected sex with  _Sherlock_? I didn’t know the man was even capable!”

Phillip’s face felt warm. “Anything you say can’t be worse than anything I’ve said to myself. I was an idiot. He wasn’t even supposed to  _be_  there. He was dead and I was…”

Greg looked sick. “Oh my god, this is my fault. I wasn’t around and you weren’t in the right mind. I should have known what was happening. I  _did_  know, I just—“

“Stop that. Don’t blame yourself.” Pulling himself out of his own regret, Phillip reached for Greg’s hand. “I forgave you already, remember? So we don’t really have to have this conversation. I was obsessed. You had a life. I had…Sherlock. Now I’m paying the price.”

“Phill. Fuck. You can’t say you don’t blame me at all.”

He was sick and tired of feeling guilty and miserable. He just wanted to move on; why id everyone insist on bringing it up?

“Fine, have it your way,” Phillip snapped. “Yes, I was bloody pissed at you. It was hard. Being alone. Nobody believed me.” He still remembered the hurt. “But I forgive you. Honestly, if I were you I’d have given up, too. I was a lost cause.”

Greg’s head hung in his hands. The tea and scones sat heavily in Phillip’s stomach. “Don’t say that about yourself. God. I’m so sorry. This is like something out of a nightmare.”

“Hey.” He got up gingerly and sat down next to Greg. “Having Sherlock’s—ugh, I can’t even say it. Having a baby isn’t all bad. It helped, in a weird way. Knowing that I have a purpose has helped kickstart getting back on track.” He smiled wryly. “By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve been able to get them to review my case, have you?”

“Not as such.” Greg sighed. After a moment, he continued. “Sorry, mate. You know how it works ‘round there. It’s been years.”

“At least I can say I tried.” A nasty headache hovered at the back of Phillip’s brain. Every day seemed to tire him out more than the last; this conversation wasn’t helping. “It would be nice not to have a rubbish job.”

"Oi, that job isn’t rubbish,” Greg said. “You get to train our unsuspecting youth. I never really expected that out of you. Then again, I never expected you to want kids.”

 “I’ve always wanted one. When I divorced, the opportunity just slipped away.” Phillip let his hand fall to his stomach. “If I’m honest, I didn’t even consider not having this baby. Maybe I should’ve. I must seem completely daft.”

“I for one am glad you’re doing something for yourself for once.” Greg gently placed his hand over his own. Phillip repressed a shiver; he hadn’t been properly touched in months and his body reminded him, quite eagerly, that he was lonely. Greg’s hand was warm and big.

God, he  _really_  needed to get laid if he was seriously considering Lestrade as a candidate.

“Speaking of…shouldn’t you tell him? Sherlock, I mean. It’s his kid, too.”

Phillip snatched his hand away, warmth evaporating. “Ha! Right. Do you really think Sherlock Holmes would care? Can you honestly imagine him caring?” Phillip lowered his voice to mimic Sherlock’s tone. ‘I do deduce that you are pregnant by the dog hair on your lower back’.” He snorted. “He wouldn’t want the responsibility of a  _baby_ ; he can barely dress himself. Do you remember the time he showed up in pajamas under that ridiculous coat?”

“I do.” Greg grinned. “I have a video, in fact.”

“Really?” It was too good to be true.

Greg’s grin widened. “Would you like to see? I’ve found that when Sherlock is around, documenting that man’s life is the most amusing thing I’ve ever done.”

“Yes. I’d like to feel superior over him for once.“ Phillip scooted closer as Greg pulled out his phone. It was a relief that their conversation had taken a different turn. A much younger Sherlock appeared in slightly grainy quality. Anderson was behind him talking to Sally. She at that moment was the new recruit, still learning the ropes. She looked sharp and beautiful even in the dim lighting. Phillip felt a surge of pride knowing how far she’d come.

When Sherlock abruptly slipped in the middle of his speech and landed on his face, Phillip burst into laughter along with the people in the video. He laughed even when the video became too shaky (undoubtedly due to Greg’s mirth).

“God, I nearly threw up from laughing so hard that day. It’s weird seeing that. I look so young.” Phillip thought about getting out his own mobile to scroll through the photos he’d kept in his own experience. “ _Sally_  looks so young.” He swallowed. “How is she?”

“She’s good. Misses you, I think.” Greg pressed a button that closed the camera app and shoved his phone in his pocket. “She’s never been the type to say that type of thing out loud, but we’ve worked together too often for me not to notice.”

He regarded Phillip. “You should call her.”

A wave of fear swept through Phillip. “I can’t. What would she say if she saw me now? She’s worse than you because she wouldn’t give up until she had answers. I don’t want to see the look on her face if she finds out.” 

Greg laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Mate, what do you think she’s going to do? You realize she stopped hating Sherlock after he died, right? You weren’t the only one who felt guilty, you know. We all did. She just handled it better than most and you weren’t in any place to be thinking about others. Well, anyone other than Sherlock. Give her a chance.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he said. “Things are different now.”

Greg nudged his shoulder. “If I have to drag her to the birthing room you know she won’t be happy.”

“Just give me time,” he pleaded.

“Don’t worry about me spilling the beans; it’s not up to me, mate. You do what feels right.” At the sound of a beep, Greg checked his watch and then whistled. “I’ve got to pop off now, I’m afraid. Meeting with Sherlock about a case. He was adamant that it be as soon as possible. See you later, yeah? Give it some thought.”

After Greg left, Phillip realized he wasn’t sure what he meant to give thought. He stared at the screen of his phone, hovering over both Sherlock and Sally’s names until he jammed the charger in the port on his phone and tried to get some sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It must have been a reaction to being around an alpha, because that night Phillip felt something that one of his condition should not have been experiencing in any healthy setting presently: heat.

The feeling churning in his gut was unfamiliar and almost painful. He feverish and far too warm. It wasn’t like the heat that betas usually had; if he’d had the coherency to pick apart what was happening, he would find it possibly akin to an omega’s heat. 

Phillip exposed his throat, arching towards an invisible strange. The sheets under him shifted with a soft hiss. He was on his bed, that much he knew, but it felt new. Softer. Gripping the fabric under his fingers, Phillip felt silk.

When he opened his eyes and looked to his right, he found Sherlock watching him. Phillip writhed, pulling and tugging on the sheets rhythmically. He noted in a half-delirious, vague way, that any sign of his pregnancy was gone, his belly slim. Phillip shifting uneasily and moaned. It was almost a relief having all that space again, but the peculiarity of the situation drifted off far too quickly for him to grasp fully.

Instead he was overcome by the overwhelming need to have something inside him. He arched off the bed, nude, cock standing stiff against his belly. It was smaller for some reason, but no less sensitive to stimulus. Reaching down, he rocked desperately into his own hand until that, too, wasn’t enough. He wrapped it around the base, stroking himself slowly, and then with much more vigor, seeking relief. The pleasure was incredibly intense—but it wasn’t enough. Phillip groaned and tossed his head.

Like a fly to an open flame, Sherlock padded over. He, too, was naked, looking at Phillip with an expression he’d never seen before: tenderness. He hovered briefly, as if deciding in what to partake first, and then pressed his hand against Phillip’s chest. He was saying something softly, low enough that it was difficult to hear. His voice was like velvet. Hands, far more gentle than they had any right to be traveled the length of his chest, pausing to run through the sparse hair. His nipples were plucked, which made Phillip shout. Sherlock smirked but left them alone, his hand dipping lower. Phillip bucked impatiently, assuming that Sherlock’s hands would wrap around him and—

“Oh, oh god, yes.” He gasped. Sherlock’s fingers, those long, slender, magical fingers turned his body inside out with mere touch. He rocked his hips against the sharp sensation.

 It was overwhelming; he’d never felt anything like this before.

“Do omegas always—“ feel this way, he meant to ask, but Sherlock did something entirely unexpected and leaned down, swallowing Phillip's cock entirely.

He shouted, digging his heels into the duvet wildly. It was like fine silk and warm, wet heat.

Sherlock began bobbing his head, fingers working into the slick passage just behind Phillip’s bollocks, perfect for breeding.

“Sherlock, please. Sherlock don’t- please,” he panted, chest heaving. He felt alive. Wild. Now was not the time for gentle teasing, intended to drive one mad. “Fuck me. God,  _fuck me_.”

Sherlock answered by pulling his mouth away from Phillip’s cock, still pumping his fingers into his hole, luxuriously slow.

“Look at you,” Sherlock purred, stroking his prostate. His eyes sparkled as Phillip gasped and twitched. “You’re so wet. I’ve never seen even an omega this wet before. You want it  _so_  badly, don’t you?”

Phillip could only nod, grinding himself desperately on Sherlock’s fingers, chasing the connection. “Yes,  _yes_. If you would fuck me now, that would be really great,” he pleaded.

“Bossy.” Sherlock worked their mouths together, ferocious now, like alphas always were, and Phillip didn’t mind at all that his lips would bruise. He just wanted so badly what Sherlock could give him.

“Please.” A few frustrated tears gathered and spilled down his cheeks. Sherlock kissed the tears away and then spread Phillip’s legs. Without warning, he pushed his cock into the wet heat of Phillip's arse, letting loose a long groan.

He was so thick. Phillip whined, mouth open wide. His fingers clawing uselessly at the bed sheets as Sherlock stretched him beyond comprehension. It was the most amazing thing he had ever felt. His body convulsed and shivered; his toes curled. Phillip bit the side of his fist to contain his whimpers, because otherwise he might say something even more humiliating, like  _I wish you’d bite me. Mark me. Bond me_.

Instead Phillip lost himself in the pleasure of Sherlock’s cock sliding deftly between his cheeks. Sherlock lifted himself higher, bending Phillip's body. Each powerful thrust sent waves of sparks dancing over Phillip's skin.

His fingers wouldn't work properly; they were clumsy against his skin. When he managed to take himself in hand, Sherlock took his wrists and slammed them against the sheets. "Mine," he hissed, punctuating his words with a powerful thrust.

“Please,” Phillip choked, feeling humiliated as he gushed around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock said nothing as he ground into him, eyes dark with hunger. He looked at Phillip like he was the only thing in the world; like he was something precious. Phillip inhaled sharply, going rigid as Sherlock reached a place deep inside him. His eyes fluttered closed. Phillip'scock, a dusky pink, dribbling piteously on his stomach, ignored. He didn't care. Nothing mattered now, here, with Sherlock looking at him,  _really_ looking at him. 

As if sensing his need, Sherlock picked up the pace, nearly bending Phillip in half and sending the bedframe ricocheting against the wall. Phillip's moans escalated until his voice grew hoarse, his heels digging uselessly into Sherlock's lower back.  _Nothing_  had ever felt this fulfilling before. 

"Sherlock," he gasped, fingers seeking him out.

Sherlock paused, then stilled gingerly. Phillip's skin began buzzing like a thousand little bees were prying at his insides. Why had he stopped why had he— Phillip needed—

He gripped Sherlock's shoulders and he pleaded, begged until Sherlock huffed hot air against the base of his throat. Phillip could feel Sherlock’s heart beating against his chest, sweet in its frantic beat. "More," he sobbed. It was all he ever wanted. He was an omega, Sherlock was his alpha, and it was everything he needed. Sherlock growled into his ear and started pounding into his body. Pleasure rippled down his spine and he couldn’t help but tug at his own cock this time, breath coming out in short, sharp gasps.

Just as he felt oncoming orgasm rise and crash over him, his mind tumbled onto itself and he woke up.

Mid-orgasm, Phillip’s cry was muffled slightly be the pillow under his mouth. He shook through the force of it, whimpering and calling Sherlock's name. Where was he? He couldn't feel him anymore. And his heat—

At once, his eyes snapped open.

Completely disoriented, Phillip looked around, expecting to find Sherlock hovering above him, whispering filthy promises into his ear. He checked himself under the duvet and found that he was neither in heat nor was he an omega.  _Ah._  His face burned. 

It had all been one ridiculous dream. He started to laugh.

"God, I'm pathetic," he muttered, wiping the mess onto the bedsheets. Apparently, according to his dreams, he was still hung up on Sherlock. Very much so, in fact. It had been so vivid that Phillip had been completely convinced for a few foolish seconds that he was—that they were together.

After carefully heaving himself over the edge of the bed, he began inspecting the damage. He noted that with some relief he really hadn't gotten wet—certainly not as wet as his omega self seemed capable—which meant he wouldn't need to clean the mattress. Betas weren't prone to getting ridiculously soaked in their own fluids, which was apparently something alphas found arousing. Why anyone would want to fuck in a puddle, Phillip had no idea. It was probably a good thing that he was a beta, then. 

It was definitely a good thing. He wasn't at all disappointed. 

Phillip ripped the duvet and sheets off of the bed and shoved the entire ensemble into the washer. 

* * *

Lily was born in early July, just when the annual London heat began to simmer into the unbearable range. Phillip had been absolutely  _miserable_  during the last month of his pregnancy. He'd learned that it was possible to sweat absolutely _everywhere_ , for one. The heat clung to his skin, burning through him like a hot coal. It was almost worse than the loneliness. Phillip was experiencing a mateless pregnancy, constantly reminding him that not only was he hot, but he was hot  _and_ alone. One desperate afternoon he almost called Sherlock mobile. He'd punched in every number until the last digit, wherein he came to his senses and turned it off to avoid anymore temptation.

At one point he called Sally's office phone, but there was no answer. 

When the weather cooled down and he no longer wanted to take four showers over the course of one afternoon, it was almost a relief that Lily announced her desire to come into the world with a building, unfamiliar pain.

Phillip was doing laundry gasped, folding in on himself. Pain was not unordinary, and Lily’s movements had been active for the past month. Indeed, even the last few days had signaled that he would be going into labour at a moment’s notice. But this pain was sharper, and more rudimentary. His body seized with it, his muscles working to squeeze. Soon after his innards stopped contracting, Phillip paused to give himself a moment to hyperventilate.

His thoughts echoed in a dichotomy of panic and elation. When he thought he felt excited about his child’s birth, a contraction pulled him back into panic mode. It was late; just barely gone 6. Phillip lurched into the bedroom and searched for his phone. With shaking hands he dialed Greg’s number, praying that he picked up.

“I’m sorry, but the number you are calling…”

 _Fuck_. He hung up and paced the length of his room.

 _I’m alone,_ he thought. _Completely, utterly alone and I have no idea what I’m doing_.

Angry tears collected along his lashes and slid down his cheeks. He needed Greg to be there. He was an alpha, if not his own, and could offer comforts that neither a sterile ambulance nor a musty cab could. He tried his number a few more times, growing more frantic with each connection to his voicemail. He shouted as the baby kicked him in his kidney. _You need to calm down_ , it told him.

“Right. Calm. I can do that.” He tried to remember the breathing exercises he’d read about, but each painful drag didn’t seem to relax him any more than pacing had. _It will be hard, the first time,_ they claimed. Whoever the elusive “they” was, he wondered if they’d ever been a pregnant beta. It wasn’t as if he was an omega, who were generally built for this sort of thing.

Such thoughts threw Phillip full-force into his paranoia. He gave up the pretense of being calm and rocked himself into a frightened stupor until his waters broke. After that, he only had enough sense to change his clothes before he clutched his phone to his chest and prayed that Greg answer.

“Please pick up,” he hissed into the phone. Phillip promised himself that if Greg didn’t answer, he’d call Sally. It was the worst time to get into contact, but he just couldn’t let a stranger be the one to hold his hand as he gave birth to his daughter.

Greg answered on the second ring. “Ander—?”

Before he could ever get a word in edgewise, Philllip breathed a sigh of relief. Or panic. “Greg! I know you’re probably _busy,”_ he spit the word, “and this is the worst time, but my waters broke. Remember when you promised to be here as soon as I rang? I’ve been calling you for an hour. _Where are you_?”

Phillip didn’t care that he was being unfair; he was under high duress. He heard wind howling on the other side of the connection and wondered whether or not Greg was working a late case. God, he wished he could be there. Anywhere but here, anything but this.

“I’m on my way. I will be. Just hold on, Phillip.” There were muffled sounds as Greg covered the receiver. Phillip was only half aware that he was whimpering. “I just made my excuses to the lot of them. You’re lucky, mate; Sally will handle the rest. Also, before you say anything, I’m sorry. To get away…I—I had to tell her. It was the only way I could ensure that she’d take care of things here.”

“You what?!” Phillip shouted. “Greg, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about my pregnant friend,” he snapped. “Just—now hold on. Sally, just wait a second. Sally!” Phillip heard Sally’s voice filter through, too muddled to understand. “I’ve got to go, Phillip. I’m sorry. I’ll see you a tic. Just hold on.”

Phillip clung to the phone long after he’d hung up. He felt numb. Sally knew, just like that. At the _worst_ possible time. He really didn’t need this.

When Greg showed up at his door, Phillip couldn’t keep himself from clinging to him. The only complaint Greg seemed to have was that Phillip’s nails were digging into his arm.

“Like talons,” he complained. “Come on, you’re giving birth, not dying. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

“I must be losing my hearing as well as my mind, because those words did not just come out of your mouth.”

“Ow! What did I say about your grip?”

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” Phillip parroted. He secretly appreciated the distraction. His composure was shot to pieces and he was three seconds from vomiting.

He was terrified.

On the way, safely tucked against the door of Greg’s police car, dark thoughts pervaded his mind.

“What if something’s wrong with her?” he whispered. “What if there’s something wrong with me?”

“Nothing could be wrong with that kid,” Greg replied calmly. “It’s going to be spoiled to death, and not only by you. I fancied that I’d have more kids once my boy had grown up, you know?”

“Oh?" Phillip wished he sounded more interested. It was hard to care about anything other than the heat of his stomach and the pain.

“Yeah. You’re luckier than most.”

“I don’t feel particularly lucky now.”

Greg laughed. “I reckon you don’t. But you will soon. Just wait.”

Phillip had the presence to force out, “Fuck you” as he was bombarded by another contraction. They were still fairly far apart, but no less painful.

* * *

The hospital was bright, he was hot, and nobody would listen to him when he told them that he was in pain. After the nurse ascertained he meant the usual amount of pain and another abnormal, his complaints were met with stark professionalism. _Everything will be all right, my arse!_

“Fuck, this hurts.”

“You’re in labour, mate,” said Greg, words filled with warm affection. “Of course it hurts.”

“I just want it to be over,” Phillip whined, releasing an agonized sound. He heard the bones in Greg’s hand crack when he double over. “The thing about pain like this is that it never goes away. It just gets _worse_.”

“Of course.” Greg was sympathetic, but his blasé attitude was starting to wear on Phillip’s nerves.

“I regret bringing you here!” he shouted. “Oh, shit that hurts. Everything hurts. I hate you.”

His feet were eventually placed in the stirrups, keeping him from hurting himself as his body convulsed. After countless minutes in which the nurses encouraged Phillip to squat, stand, turn, or do what felt natural, he’d ignored them all and clung to Greg’s hand, flat on his back. He still wasn’t entirely sure he could hold himself up that long when his legs started shaking the moment he put pressure on them. So stirrups it was. _And_ he’d opted for a natural birth, which was something Greg was very much right about; he regretted it very quickly.

The pain rolled through him in waves, occasional causing him to weave in and out of consciousness. The absolute worst and best part of the experience, Phillip decided, was when Sally walked through the door.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” came Greg’s voice, tight but relieved. He was speaking to someone else. All Phillip needed to do was let his head fall a little to the left, and he saw her. “Everything turn out all right at work?”

“Please no. _Shit_. Tell me I’m dreaming.” He covered his face with his hands, flushing from intense mortification.

Sally didn’t appear very different from the last time he’d seen her almost a year ago. She looked fierce with her hair tied behind her head, a dark suit accentuating the fullness of her figure. As an alpha, she commanded a much greater presence than Phillip ever hoped to. Her eyes were dark with anger, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Don’t worry, Lestrade. I made sure it was all tied up with a neat little bow while you helped somebody give bloody _birth_.”

Before he could bother with a response, Phillip’s body did it for him. He howled as another contraction slammed into him and he felt Lily move low, pressing firmly against his pelvis.

The expression in Donovan’s face evaporated and morphed into concern as she moved closer. Her face was pale with fright; Phillip couldn’t blame her. She looked as scared as he was. When she rested a hand on Phillip’s, he could feel it was shaking.

“What have we here,” she teased, words trembling a little. “We stop talking for a while and you go and get yourself pregnant?”

“It wasn’t exactly my choice,” he spat, letting her warm fingers curl around his clammy palm. He’d stopped worrying about sweating hours ago, but now it had him embarrassed. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him go.

“If some dickhead forced you into this—“

“No! No. Fuck no.” Phillip tried in vain to find a way to explain it in as few words as possible. “I’m up the duff and you really don’t want to know who the father is. Can we _please_ talk about it later?”

Sally didn’t look happy. “If you’re in labour, this could take hours, right? We have all the time in the world for you to tell me exactly who it is that I need to beat some sense into—ow! Ow! Alright, fine. But this conversation isn’t over, are we clear?”

“Fucking crystal,” he hissed, then proceeded to crush her fingers.

As far as he was concerned, propriety flew out the fucking window when childbirth was involved.

Phillip went into active labour not an hour later. Lillian Anderson, he decided, was very eager to come into the real world. There were no complications as far as the professionals were concerned, so Phillip only had to suffer another hour. His voice was absolutely shattered by the time Lillian started crowning.

Sally smoothed a calming hand over Phillip’s damp hair. She was an alpha, which made her actions significantly more imperative. Phillip was no omega, but even a beta couldn’t ignore the comfort in her warm gaze. 

“You’re doing so well,” she whispered, and continued louder: “And I’m so fucking pissed at you, Phil, so you’d better hurry up.”

 He growled, following the doctor’s calm instructions to give another push. “Fuck. Off. Sally. I’m _trying_.”

“Not hard enough,” she sang. Her words made an angry fire bloom low in his belly, which gave him the strength he needed to grip both of their hands, likely cracking a few bones, and give it one last go.

“Remind me to kill Sherlock Holmes the next time I see him!”

“Noted,” Greg said, giving Sally the side-eye.

Abruptly there was a sudden emptiness near his groin, and he sagged back against the chair, exhausted. “It’s a girl!” someone announced. Sally and Greg were saying something to each other, but Phillip stopped listening. He was so tired. His arms and legs trembled, muscles already feeling a token soreness. Sitting down was going to be painful for a while.

A nurse began doing something between his legs, and then instructed him to push out the afterbirth. It served to distract him from the sight of his daughter being handle by other people. They quickly cut the cord and cleared her nose and mouth so she could breath. The moment she started crying, Phillip struggled to sit up and reach for her.

“Give her to me,” he cried. His instincts kicked in. At that moment, he wanting to do nothing more than scent his newborn and hold her close against his chest. She was handed over to him carefully. The nurse instructed him on correct posture and technique until he felt like he wasn’t going to hurt her if he held her on his own.

Her wrinkly pink skin glowed under the lighting. She was a hideous little thing, opening her mouth in a instinctual way to scent the world around her. He instantly loved her. Phillip gently pressed his mouth to her forehead and began the slow process of mingling their scents. She stopped crying the moment she realized it was her father holding her, and reached out weakly.

Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. He looked at Greg, who for all intents and purposes looked like he was a few seconds from getting emotional. “You were right,” Phillip croaked. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world right now. God, she’s _perfect_.”

“She is, mate,” said Greg. “She really is.”

* * *

Phillip’s days were filled now that he had a newborn. Lily demanded his attention and help in every aspect of her life, which left him little time to himself. To Phillip, this was an essential part of bonding to his daughter. His paid maternity leave would last for six months, giving him more than enough time to think about his job. He wasn’t certain he wanted to be a teacher when he was expected to go back to work; leaving his daughter for hours—or, god forbid, taking her with him—seemed out of the question.

One morning when Greg paid him a visit—the first, after the event that was Lily’s birth—he posed the question to him.

“Not sure,” Greg offered uselessly. “Might not be the most fun, but a job’s a job, right?”

“It’s just...how can I leave her? I don’t even like having her out of my sight for more than a few minutes.”

“It gets easier, I promise you.” Greg laughed. “You’re a mum now. Better get used to it.”

Phillip scowled. “I’m no mother, thank you. Though the breastfeeding is very weird.” Greg made a face. “Sorry, I know. Bit too much information, but I haven’t had anyone to talk to except this little girl here.” He tickled her stomach and she squealed.

“Her name’s Lillian, yeah?”

“Lily,” Phillip corrected. “I wanted something proper, but with an endearing nickname. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Aren’t you?” he cooed to her.

“You’re bloody adorable, the two of you. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

Phillip’s heart did a funny flip at the mention of the detective. “Speaking of, how was the wedding?”

Greg had told him about it weeks ago, offhandedly, and he looked shocked to see Phillip asking about it.

“Oh, it was— it was great. Sherlock solved a murder and everything. Like usual, the git.”

“At John’s wedding?” Phillip snorted which startled a hiccup out of Lily. Her eyes widened and she looked at her father like she had just discovered the meaning of the universe. He grinned at her and fished out his phone to take a photo. “Does the man ever stop?” He nuzzled Lily, smelling the clean familiar scent on her body and then looked back at Greg.

“You…I never though I’d see the day. You’re very good with her. She hasn’t made a peep.”

Phillip gently rocked the one-month old in his arms. She had gorgeous brown curls and bright, blue eyes. Phillip often wondered if she looked like Sherlock when he was a babe. Mini-Sherlock. “Not at all. You came at a good time. I can barely get her to stop crying in the middle of the night. She always sleeps during the day, and I know should do something, but I don’t have the heart to make her stay up.” He could feel a silly grin spread as Lily hiccupped again, eyes drooping lazily. She’d be hungry soon. “To be frank, I have no bloody idea what I’m doing.”

He smiled at Greg; it felt strained. “She’s the most…beautiful, perfect thing I’ve ever seen. And I feel like I’m going to fuck it up somehow.” He felt like she symbolized so much more than just a new chapter in his life. This was a product of a fruitless endeavor that yielded something more precious than gold. That product had been smacking her lips for ten minutes.

“She’s always hungry, it seems. Better get to it,” Phillip announced, shifting the baby into an easy position. Greg blinked.

“Okay.”

Phillip’s lips quirked, amused. “Which means I have to feed her. And I don’t fancy having you around.”

Greg finally got the picture when his eyes widened and he jerked back, lips curling in disgust. “Yeah, not an image I need to see. Well, I’ll just pop by another time, shall I? It’s been good, seeing you in the flesh. You look tired—tired but good.”

Phillip shrugged, reaching to unbutton his top. “If you see Sally, tell her to answer her damned phone! Getting a hold of that woman is the worst.”

“Try her work number more often!” Greg called from the door. He called out one last goodbye and then shut the door, leaving Phillip alone.

Now he could focus his efforts on Lily. She made little snuffling noises as she fed, her fingers curling gently against his skin. She was warm, soft, and smelled of coconuts from the baby lotion he used liberally. Breastfeeding thing was still a very strange experience; he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. _Omegas_ _are probably all over this kind of thing_ , he thought bitterly. He was just a beta. Sometimes he felt so out of his element that it was a wonder he didn’t mess something up.

 _Lily_ seemed to know more than he did, moving her head until she had settled comfortably. He brushed a kiss across the top of her head.

* * *

 

At her second month, Lily’s habits were average for any two-month old baby. It was a learning experience for both of them; Lily seemed to find everything fascinating and frightening at once. She would burst into tears at the sight of something unfamiliar, but when she looked at something else, she might not stop until her pudgy hands had inspected it at every angle.

Phillip was constantly terrified that he was doing something wrong. His eyes ached from reading and re-reading the same books, websites, and pamphlets.

His phone rang when he was changing her diaper, leaving him momentarily flustered as he was caught between lunging for his phone or letting Lily wriggle diaper free for a moment. He pressed a cloth to her groin for safety (he’d learned that the hard way) and reached for his phone. “Anderson speaking,” he said neutrally. As he tried to dress Lily one-handed, he almost dropped the phone when he heard Sally’s low chuckle echo into his ear.

“Sally!” he exclaimed, delighted. “So you finally decided to call me. Color me surprised.”

“You’ll be spotting more than few colors when I’m through with you,” she said, her tone light. “It’s been _insanely_ busy down here, so I haven’t really had a second to myself. I knew you were busy with Lillian, which made it more difficult to find time. How are you doing? How’s she?”

“Good,” Phillip answered on autopilot. “Exhausted, tired, and scared, but good. I was changing her diaper when you called.”

“Being a dad’s not easy, is it? I never wanted kids. People expect alphas to be gung-ho about it, but I’m just not…”

“Maternal?” Phillip offered.

“Maybe. I dunno. Enough about me, though! When can I see the little munchkin?”

“Soon as you can make it over, I s’pose. When are you next off?”

He heard her sigh. “Not for a while, mate. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how many serial killers London harbored until Sherlock bloody Holmes found them all.”

“Oh?” Phillip tried to sound like he wasn’t at all interesting in the business of one surly detective. “He’s famous now, isn’t he. Still an arse?”

She giggled. “Always. I have stories to tell you once I get to your place. How does five sound?”

“Good.” It wasn’t until he heard her voice that Phillip realized how much he missed her—and how lonely he was beginning to feel cooped up in his little flat by himself. “Really good.”

* * *

 

Three months as a parent, and Phil still didn’t believe in his ability to properly raise his child. Lily took up every modicum of time and energy. Half of it he spent worrying over articles on the internet. There were so many illnesses that a baby could contract. When she sneezed, coughed, or hiccuped in a weird way, Phillip jumped to find the cause.

It was plain that Greg was worried whenever he came to visit. Phillip, lethargic and drooping, barely had the energy to entertain him.

"Are you okay?" he asked. 

It was his usual opening statement, and Phillip could tell he was sincere. However, he wasn’t a charity case and Greg wasn’t his alpha, so of course he was fine.

“Just tired,” he said wearily. It wasn’t only Lily that tired him out, but more than anything, it was being alone.

Something he had never admitted to Greg was that he still occasionally had nightmares about Sherlock. Two years could do that to a man. After Lily appeared in his life, he thought he was getting better. Every day it was a little harder to ignore being alone in his flat, watching crap telly when he felt like it. His job was an option, but not something he felt comfortable considering when Lily took up so much of his time. He was too proud to admit that he was in desperate need of some sort of companionship, but not stupid enough to let himself believe Greg or Sally could be that companion.

“Please…will you just think about it?”

To his credit, this was only the second time that Greg had tried to plant the idea into his head.

“What makes you think that Sherlock would care?”

It was probably the instinct to protect that made him think telling Sherlock in any way a good idea. Not to mention that Sherlock was a bloody alpha, and if in the unlikely situation he filed for some sort of custody, it would be an uphill battle. Omegas almost always got their way, but he was a _beta_. He wasn’t sure there was much precedence.

“I just think that maybe it might give you some peace. I know you’ve been—look,” Greg shifted the baby in his arms when Phillip made to reach for her. She was sound asleep, something that was becoming increasingly more rare outside of her naptime. ”I know you and Sherlock don’t have the best history together. To be frank I don’t know that you two have a future, but do you think he’ll sit in the dark forever? What about when Lily’s a kid and she’s asking about daddy?”

Lily made a sound in her sleep. Phillip resisted the strong urge to pull her away from Greg and bring her back into his arms. “I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

“I just— you should see him. He’s different now that Mary and John are married and he’s on his own. He’s changed over the last two years. We all have.”

Phillip’s lips pressed together in a thin line at Greg’s subtle dig. “Some more than other, I gather.” After seeing Sherlock, two years after his death, Phillip hadn’t observed that much of said change. His deductive skills weren’t on par with Sherlock Holmes by any stretch, but even Phillip could tell that the same man was flouncing around, deducing all their dirty little secrets. ”Sherlock isn’t one of them. You told me he couldn’t even remember your name!”

“He was joking!” Greg exclaimed. “I think,” he added after a pause.

Either way, what change he saw with Phillip was only sexual. His status as an alpha had never made any remote difference to Phillip until the day of his heat. He shouldn’t have seen Sherlock, but how could he pass up the chance to speak to the legend? It absolved some of his crippling guilt to watch him natter away. Even more so when Phillip flirted outrageously with him and Sherlock was suddenly there, purring over him in that silky tone of his.

He blinked himself out of the memory. There was no telling why he had accepted Phillip into his bed. Maybe he had changed. Two years  _could_  do a lot to one person, he supposed.

“This is the last time I bother you. Promise. Just think about it, all right? Right now wouldn’t be a good time to drop the bomb I s'pose, but…someday, yeah?”

Someday maybe, he ended up agreeing. Even if he never would, it clearly eased Greg’s bleeding heart. If he admitted it to himself, it did feel good to have an alpha looking at him like he was something to be protected, appreciated, and taken seriously even though he wasn’t an omega.

“Someday, sure,” he repeated, mostly to himself.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Four months.

_You may find it hard to believe, but you’ve almost made it halfway through your infant’s first year! Just a little longer to go._

—so the article claimed.

As per usual, Phillip had been studiously following every reputable source of parenthood he could get his hands on, and as far as the experts claimed, Lily was doing well. The only trouble he was experiencing was that she hated baby food and wouldn’t even touch solid food, something he'd only tried once or twice. She preferred breast milk, which was normal. Healthy, even.

It still amazed Phillip to see how his baby girl, once a shriveled, wrinkled thing, could suddenly make his arms ache with her weight. He watched her now as she wiggled her feet and made senseless noise. She couldn’t crawl yet—she could barely sit without his help—but she could roll on her back and sometimes change that position.

Phillip reached to pick her up for her four o’clock feeding. When he stood from his kneeling position, he shivered. He hadn't started on the heating yet—jumpers were just as effective—but it was undeniable that the air was starting to cool, which reminded him to rub more lotion into her skin. She was currently bundled in an adorable one-piece that made her eyes pop. They reminded him of Sherlock too much, sometimes.

He cooed at her. She tried to take his finger into her mouth, so he quickly withdrew.

The first few weeks every time she had uttered a sound Phillip had worried himself sick. Now he felt like he might actually be doing something right. Occasionally.

“Time for dinner, hm? What would you like tonight?” Lily stuffed her toy into her mouth in reply.

Her favorite was a bee plushy he had bought her during her third week. On a regular shopping trip, Phillip had been deciding between types of lettuce when Lily, being enchanted by everything in sight, had started squealing as it appeared in front of her. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Is Lily hungry?” he cooed, opening the carrot baby food. “Does Lily want a snack?” He heard an answering gurgle of delight; she probably recognized the word _snack_. He hoisted her into his arms carefully and walked into the kitchen, reaching for the cabinet full of baby food. After pouring into a bowl (for some reason she hated the sight of the baby food containers), he spooned a little bit for her to try. “You like carrots, don’t you?”

She did not like carrots. It dripped down her chin and she screwed her face in a way that was unbecoming of her. He tried to spoon it back into her mouth and watched as she spit it out again. Right. Maybe he could mix it with some applesauce? That was her favourite.

After mixing the two, he tried again. Lily gave it a cursory glance, as thoughtful as a baby could manage, and opened her mouth for more. He dubbed it a success.

"Buh buh," she cried, reaching for him.

 _God_. He loved her so much.

Not much later, her diaper was ready to be changed.

“You’re disgusting, Lily. Do you know how many diapers I go through for you? I may have to get those organic washable ones soon. I weep for our landfills.”

Lily gurgled in response and chewed on her plushie’s wing.

“You are going to be a serious trouble maker, aren’t you?” Phillip grinned, finished powdering her bum and the put her in a fresh, new diaper. “There we go.” He stood Lily up on two feet and watched as she wobbled and then bestowed him with a huge, warm smile. “That is adorable. Yes you are. Yes you—“

Phillip was interrupted when the doorbell rang.

He straightened. Greg wouldn’t be visiting him at this hour (they were busy, as usual) and he didn’t really have that many friends of which to speak. Perhaps it was the neighbor coming to complain about the noise again (he couldn't help that he had a baby that cried when it was upset!). He wiped powdery residue onto his trousers and then picked Lily up. He hoped it was merchandise that he’d ordered online.

After a pause, Phillip decided instead to put Lily in her crib, just in case it was something he needed to sign and carry. She’d be safe in there, at least. “Be quiet, love. I’ll be right back.”

So consumed by his thoughts Phillip failed to check the peephole and threw the door wide open.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him in all his pale, dark-coated glory.

“I—“ he was at a loss for words. “This is unexpected. Sherlock.” A sharp thrill ran through Phillip when he said his name. “Holmes. What are you doing here?” He couldn’t help but sneer, reverting back to usual form.

“Oh for a very important reason, I assure you.” His eyes trailed down Phillip, deducing God knew what. Phillip felt uncomfortably exposed and wished he’d had the sense to change his shirt; it was something he saved for days when he knew Lily was going to be an absolute terror. His jumper had seen better days; the stains were numerous. He tugged at it self-consciously. It was hard not to compare himself to Sherlock. He looked stylish, dressed in sharp clothing in comparison to Phillip. 

“I need your help, actually.” With preamble, Sherlock swept past him, his eyes cast about the flat.

“Right. My help. What exactly do you want help with? And how did you find me?”

“Phone records. Not that difficult to track once you know where to look.” Sherlock stopped short of the coffee table.

Phillip took a very, very deep breath. “I’m going to ignore how creepy that statement is and ask again: what do you need help with? I’m a bit busy.”

“Yes, I can see.” Sherlock’s lips quirked. “You’re a teacher and a…part time day-care assistant? Bravo. It won’t take long to explain.”

Day-care assistant. Phillip could have cried; that was much better than he had hoped. He was suddenly very glad that Lily’s things were in the other room, only strengthening Sherlock’s deduction.

“Hurry up, then. I have things to do.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock ushered him over impatiently until Phillip joined him at the table where he had set a file down.

Now that he had a moment to process this, the surrealism of the situation hit him. He hadn’t seen Sherlock in over a year and he had waltzed into Phillip’s home as if he owned the place, reminiscent of his time with the met. They were not fond memories for Phillip. Memories of a much more fond nature flashed across the front of his brain. He could feel his face getting warm.

“What do you have for me?” he urged, ignoring the urge to glance towards Lily's room. “That looks like a case file.” He glanced at the alpha. “Holmes…”

“While working with Lestrade we—or rather  _I_ —came across this.” He slipped the sheet of results into his view.

Phillip blanched and stood sharply. What he was looking was none other than the Scotland Yard’s forensics analysis.

“What are you playing at? I don’t work there anymore, and right here it says that they found the matching DNA, no problem. I don’t know what you want me to do with this.”

“I don’t trust them,” Sherlock said bluntly. “They’re all idiots. None of them knew me before my _suicide_ and working with them is intolerable. Some praise the very ground I walk on, while others are intent on showing their dislike." He made a strange gesture, as if waving away an annoying gnat.

“And you think because we had sex, that I’ll welcome you with open arms.” There. He'd said it.

Sherlock met his gaze and scowled. “Hardly. You were reasonably intelligent, despite the numerous blunders. There’s more to it! There always is. They're insufferable when they won't work with me—“

“If you remember, I wouldn’t work with you either.”

“—practically students just out of school,” Sherlock continued, uninterrupted. He shoved the paper in Phillip’s face and then pulled out a few samples that were most likely illegal.

“Did you nick those from a crime scene?” Sherlock’s indignant expression was answer enough. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t have access to lab and I’m not joining the Met anytime soon. This is  _their_  case.” As much as he would have liked to. As much as Sherlock attention made him feel somehow better, which was both confusing and frustrating.

“I don’t like the lot of them.” Sherlock gestured to the evidence.

“Holmes.” Phillip sighed. “Why are you here? I get what you want me to do, but I don’t see how I will  _or_  can.”

“Your work must have a lab. Universities usually do. Or you can use access Bart’s. I,” he paused, “find you less incompetent than others.”

Before Phillip could form a reply, Lily burst into tears. _Fuck_.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to the bedroom door before coming to rest on Phillip’s face. His gaze was searching, and yielded nothing of his own thoughts. Phil could feel his own face going hot. When Sherlock opened his mouth, Phillip did the only thing he could, and fled into the other room to fetch his daughter.

“Stay here,” he barked behind him as an afterthought.

When he reached Lily she was immediately calmed, of course. Phillip dried the tears on her cheeks and began to check for the cause of her distress. He smelled her diaper and ascertained she hadn’t soiled herself, and she had eaten just an hour ago. The way she’d stopped crying told him she’d simply missed her da. He was curious to know if she could smell Sherlock yet, if her senses were that developed.

The sound of footsteps echoed softly behind him.

Phillip stilled; he hadn’t forgotten about Sherlock. Turning, he met his blank, calculating stare with one of his own. “I told you to stay out there.”

Sherlock’s gaze instantaneously to Lily; he said nothing.

It was disconcerting. Phillip felt vulnerable like this, left wondering what Sherlock could possibly be deducing now. Phillip shifted Lily so she rested more comfortably in his arms, but she kept twisting to look at Sherlock.

After giving him a good once over, she began to protest his presence in the room violently. Shocked, Phillip struggled to keep a solid hold on her. He’d remembered reading about reactions like this numerous times, but hadn’t yet experienced it for himself. According to biology, Lily’s facial recognition would fail to recall this unknown alpha and uncertainty of it could trigger the "flight or fight" stress response.

He cradled Lily’s head against his chest and calmly shushed her as she clutched at Phillip’s shirt, trying to wriggle as close to his comforting scent as possible.

“I think we’re done here. I can't help you,” said Phillip. There was a dawning expression of shock on Sherlock’s face that Phillip did not want to think about, let alone confront. He pushed past Sherlock and went to fetch one of Lily’s bee in order to clam her down. Its wing was now severely damaged by spittle, but that didn’t deter Lily in the least; she hugged the toy to her chest as she expressed very loudly that Sherlock was not welcome. Her voice would go hoarse, crying like this.

“What is  _that_?” Sherlock’s voice cut through him like a fine knife, hard as steel.

“I thought you were a detective. It’s a child, obviously.” Phillip’s hands were shaking. His blood pumped loudly his ears.

This was _exactly_ what he had wanted to avoid.

When he chanced a glance at Sherlock, he didn’t expect to see blatant anger mixed in with the obvious shock. “You…” Sherlock seemed at a loss for words. “She’s mine, isn’t she.”

Phillip said nothing. Should he even bother? “You’re not here for her. You came for that case, which I can’t do anything about.” His heart was pounding so hard that he felt lightheaded. “Even if you think I  _am_  competent.”

“I think I was wrong.” Sherlock’s hands came together in a familiar way, fingers drumming against each other. His eyes skittered across the flat multiple times, sweeping every nook and cranny until he finally landed back on Phillip. “Your child,” he began suddenly. “Four or five months old, I gather. Normal birth; probably seven pounds.”

“Sherlock.” Phillip closed his eyes. His heart pounded harder. “Please. Don’t.”

“Oh, but I haven’t got to the best part. You see, incompetence can vary from subject to subject. Parenting, for example.” His smile was shark-like. Phillip was frozen on the spot. How Sherlock was able to dig a knife right at the heart of his insecurities, Phillip would never know.

“I can tell from the wear patterns in the rugs that she—I don’t yet know her name but I can only assume it’s something related to a family member—barely even moves, let alone trying to crawl.”

Phillip was going to go into cardiac arrest. There was something that was absolutely terrifying about Sherlock like this. Exciting when pressed upon anyone but yourself.

“Don’t," he hissed, "say another word about her.”

Sherlock ignored him; he was on a roll, spitting out words like venom. “Who else knew about this?” He paused for a millisecond. “Ah. Greg. I knew he was hiding something; looked guilty every time we spoke. Now I know. It is interesting, though. I never imagined that you would be stupid enough not to have any kind of preventative protection. How can anyone not be aware of own body's fertility? It’s no wonder you failed as a forensics tech.”

“That’s rich,” Phillip snarled, “coming from someone who just wanted me to do forensics work as a personal favor.” Lily fussed even harder, slapping the plush toy against Phillip’s throat. He curled his fingers around the fabric and squeezed.

Sherlock glanced at her. “Make no mistake.” If possible, he appeared even angrier. “You may have some skill, but it’s only because the ones at the Yard are practically blind  _children_. You, at least, knew me.” He switched gears again, words flying so quickly that it was hard to Phillip to follow. “I’m surprised that you’ve managed to raise her so far. She can hardly move, can’t she?” Sherlock’s lip curled cruelly. “Not when you can’t afford even the modicum of comfort.” Something flickered in Sherlock’s expression, as though he realized that he was Doing It Wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. “The brand of food you have is just enough to keep you going. You considered buying economical diapers at one point because the demand is too great. Teaching doesn’t pay well, not in London. You barely make enough money to keep you and your daughter in beans and toast.”

Lily cried harder in his arms, her little face wrinkled and turning an ugly rosy hue.

Phillip wished his hands were free so Sherlock’s nose could meet his fist. He was shaking harder now, but not out of fear; no. He was angry. Furious. He was so angry that movement seemed an impossible feat, which gave Sherlock an opening to continue to pick him apart, piece by horrifying piece.

“It’s unfortunate to see those allowed to procreate. If I had known she was conceived—“ Sherlock’s voice wavered and then broke off, and a funny expression fell onto his face.

“Stop!” he snapped, snapping into action. “ _Fuck_. Of course I didn't tell you about her, you—“ His chest heaved and his eyes stung “— _psychopath_. The last thing  _my_  daughter needed was a parent with a track record of making his loved one's watch his pretend suicide for kicks!" 

Phillip barely gave pause as he pointed to the door. “Get out. Get the hell out of my flat. I don't want to see your face.”

Sherlock looked a little dumbstruck, making no move towards the door. Phillip was in no mood for his games, not anymore. “I swear to god, Holmes, I will call Lestrade right now and have him remove you if you don’t leave.”

Mouth open and looking much more vulnerable than he had any right, Sherlock still did not move. “You just can’t stop yourself from tearing down one of the only people who really believed in you. You’re so alone now.” _Like me_. “John’s married and having his own baby, your brother is god knows where, and you came to me.” He laughed. “You are a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

Phillip approached him, blind with his anger. “If you ever say a word— if you  _ever—_ “ he choked with rage, “talk about my daughter like that again rest assured that I will not be as nice as I am now. And I know how to hide the evidence. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock was mute.

“Now get. Out.”

After that, Sherlock left without another word. He didn’t even get the case files that had seemed so important a lifetime ago. The moment he was at the door and it slammed shut, Phillip began to comfort his child. “It’s okay Lily. The bad alpha is gone. Shhh.” He rocked her, trying to control the churning of his own insides. She eventually calmed down, giving him the chance to clean her runny face.

What a mess.

Phillip put Lily on the floor to play with her toy and then sank down next to her, pressing his hand against his throat. His pulse was elevated, his hands were shaking, and no doubt his pupils would be dilated: clear signs of attraction, Sherlock would’ve said.

It was completely unfair that Sherlock continued to be a handsome bastard while Phillip got stuck with leftover belly from Lily and nothing else to really speak for. He was average, at best. Inferior. _Incompetent._

Lily rolled onto her tummy and then began waving her hand at the sofa. Her bee rested on the pillow within her line of sight, which Phillip pulled into her reach without hesitation. When she grabbed it and stuffed it into her mouth, a grin broke onto Phillip’s face. He pulled her cradle into his lap. “We don’t need that nasty man, do we?" He tickled her and she squealed, almost kicking him in the face when he bent down to kiss her forehead.

Lily seemed puzzled when her face grew wet. She watched as fat tears rolled down her father’s and smacked his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we have reached the confrontation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching POVs a couple of times. I hope that isn't confusing!

“You said  _what_?!”

“John, I don't see the problem. I have been—“

“Don’t,” John interrupted. “Don’t you dare start that with me. I can’t believe— no, you bloody know what? I can. Filter, Sherlock," he all but pleaded. "You need a brain-to-mouth filter.”

Sherlock didn't really see the big deal. Telling John had apparently been a tremendous mistake, because instead of talking with him like a normal person, he resolved to shouting at him like a petulant child.

At the commotion the door opened with a creak and Mary poked her face in. he hadn't realized Mrs. Watson was home, but she must have been summoned by the sounds of John Watson on the edge of his temper. Her daughter was nestled gently in her arms.

“John,” she snapped, “keep it down! Isabelle is finally sleeping and I don’t want her waking up.” Sherlock watched curiously as John’s face softened, a strange glint entering his eyes. Pride, and no small amount of possessive instinct.

“Please refrain from reinstating your bond in my presence,” Sherlock drawled jokingly. Mary’s eyes snapped to him viciously.

“You! Both of you were loud enough that I heard what you said to poor- poor whatever his name was. What was it?”

“Anderson,” John answered, crossing his arms.

“Anderson, right. He was in a vulnerable state and you shot him down.”

“You would know about that, wouldn’t you.” Sherlock smiled serenely while John smothered his laugh.

Mary glared at the two of them. “Don’t start. You know what you did was wrong.”

As if remembering the real problem at hand, John nodded his head, sidling towards his wife. “You can play this bullshit game, Sherlock, but we both know that there’s something human in there. That? That wasn't you.”

Human. Sherlock scowled as something hot and heavy burned in his chest. Anderson—Phillip—had said just the opposite: that he wasn’t in any regard human. A psychopath. Indeed, it was spit in the fury of the moment, but that didn't make it any less accurate.

“Why did you say those things?” John met his gaze, searching his eyes. “You're not cruel. You have saved me more times than I can count. I mean, god, your best man speech was amazing. Remember that?" He looked at Mary, who met his gaze and nodded along. "You've changed.”

“I haven’t.” He dipped his head, avoiding his friend’s gaze. “Sentiment, when it comes to my friends has made me weak, I admit.” Sherlock fiddled with his gloves, smoothing his thumb over the black leather. “But I have never held anyone to the same regard. They will be treated as they always have and I will— what?”

Mary was staring at him, her mouth pressed into a thin line. The frank disappointment on her face bore into Sherlock’s core. No matter what people said, Sherlock Holmes was not a heartless man. The fact of the matter was that his newly found fragility made him more inclined to expound upon the problems of others if it distracted him from his own. Phillip had been a prime example of that.

“Don’t do this,” Mary said quietly. Still keeping eye contact, she came over to Sherlock, and carefully lifted the child in her arms. “The first moment I saw her and took her in my arms, I cried. You don't think I'm weak, do you?” Her smile was brief and reminiscent. “Isabelle was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Not even John could get a hold of her for at least an hour.”

Mary placed a hand on his cheek, brushing her thumb over the cheekbone. “When you looked at her, I’d never seen that look on your face before. Wonder. Elation.” She let her hand fall, instead placing it on his shoulder. “And I think that when you saw your little girl, something inside you rebelled. You were angry and confused and you didn’t know how to deal with your emotions.”

The baby between them hiccuped and Mary shifted her so she could run her knuckles over the soft skin of her cheek. “You need to apologise. Make it up to him. He’s your omega, isn’t he?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s not even an omega.“

Surprised, Mary raised an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, Apologise.” She squeezed his shoulder with deadly force. 

* * *

Phillip thought it was hilarious that after all this time, after Greg spent an entire afternoon praising Sherlock’s supposed change, it all ended in the same manner it began.

Sherlock was an utter  _cock_.

 _You should see him. He’s different now,_ Greg had claimed. Greg’s perfect little angel Sherlock, who had come back from the dead like they’d all wished, had only changed for the people who mattered. The rest of them could rot, for all Sherlock cared.

"I...may have mentioned you," Greg said, sounding morose. "Once or twice. I think he forgot until then. I really am sorry that it sent him your way."

The afternoon Greg came over, apologies rolling off his tongue for the next few hours. Phillip wasn’t actually angry with him in particular, but he was going to allow him to treat him to dinner anyway. It was pathetic how much that made him feel better when Greg looked at him with warm, caring eyes.  _He_  was pathetic. 

“It's fine, really. Better he find out now rather than the alternative. At least now you see how well telling him went,” Phillip drawled. Lily burped charmingly over his shoulder. “Any more brilliant ideas?”

“Look, I know he was a prick, but I was thinking about it, actually. Do you think that maybe it was the way he found out? From what it sounds like, it really threw him.”

"Are you honestly trying to defend him?” he asked. Phillip had thought about himself, but he refused to admit to that in any degree. He was still furious every time he thought about his deductions. 

Greg held his hands up peaceably. “I swear I’m not. Sherlock is a dick and we know that. I’m just  _thinking_ that— well. He's never been one for doing emotions right. Remember the story I told you about how he sprang it on John? It's like that. He just met his daughter for the first time.”

“She is in no way his," said Phillip. "So I should just forgive him? Do you really believe that insulting our lifestyle was just a bit of rough in our grand standing relationship? We're not friends."

"No, I just— I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore." Greg sighed. "Let’s just leave it at Sherlock is a cock and you don’t have to listen to me anymore. I’ll tell him to stay away as well, okay?”

While Greg had sounded sympathetic and almost genial throughout this special brand of drama, there was an undertone of fury in his words. His fists were wrapped around each other and his knuckles were white. Typical alpha, protective arrogance. His talk with Sherlock could involve more than words, depending on their surroundings.

"I don't need your protection, Greg," he said. He couldn't help but add: "You...you don't have to say anything. If- if I'm honest with you, near the end there, it seemed like he was really regretting _maybe_ some of it. Lily has that effect on people. I think it's the gorgeous curls." He kissed the top of her head. "Not that I'm saying I in any way forgive his actions," he added, just in case.

Greg smiled. "Never doubted it. All right. Just let me know when he apologises. Actually, if you could film it, that would be great." His smile morphed into a grin. "Enough about Sherlock Holmes though, yeah? Now how about dinner. I know a nice, friendly place that hopefully will please little miss over here."

Phillip agreed; he didn't expect to hear about Sherlock for a very long time.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t apologise for a significant amount of time. While he was distracted by others things, it was almost as if what had happened was just as unimportant as many of the interactions he suffered on a daily basis. It was  _easy_  to push it aside and pretend none of it mattered to him. He didn’t even bother to  _attempt_ ; no, he was clearly preoccupied with cases and John’s new family. Looking after them was a full time job, one he took seriously. He didn't have time for feelings.

He was very curious about Phillip's child, however.

Sherlock didn’t usually touch the baby birthed by Mrs. Watson, but it was clear that John and Mary were going to constantly push the little human onto him until he showed some sort of epiphanic reaction.

He didn’t understand the lure of children. They were messy and dirty, hungry for their parents love while giving nothing back. Biology was an especially messy factor that it made it difficult to understand the appeal.

Sherlock tried to guage his level of appeal as he read in detail about children. He read from multiple sources on three laptops and five tomes of varying size. He felt no particular way about any of the subjects. Children were more interesting and more tolerable, but nothing made him feel anything akin to desire. He considered Phillip, allowing his mind to wander. The decision to fall into bed with him had been a whim spurred by his heat, which was obvious from the moment he stepped into Phillip's flat. Sherlock foolishly thought that a man—a beta—that had been as lonely as he was for two years must have been clean and unable to procreate. He had been wrong about one of them, clearly.

When he told John about his curiosity with human children, he only received a strange look before John made his excuses and wandered off, probably intending to parrot what he had heard to Mary. No matter; Sherlock didn’t need outside help when it came to any sort of investigation. John’s real use was simply helping him organize his thoughts.

Said thoughts were in disarray as he reflected on the events that had taken residence at Anderson’s pitiful flat. It had been just as he expected: sordid and as kempt as one of his financial standard could manage. Certainly better than anything Sherlock could have afforded when he was at an earlier age.

He steepled his fingers, exhaling slowly. The child was an anomaly. He had not expected the sudden appearance. It _changed_ things. Most parents (he excluded himself from this category; he was in no way responsible for the child, only half of its biological DNA) had months before the addition of another human being, but it had been abrupt as the air being ripped from his lungs. He thought that it was only natural that he reacted as he had, spouting his deduction, an exploitation of Anderson’s quiet intimacy.

He glanced towards the left, reciting a memory where John had been quieting their baby. She had light hair, mirroring the parents. Sherlock remembered his—Phillip's—child keenly; her head was covered in a nest of curls, and her mouth had held the undeniable pout of a Holmes.

This required further study.

He allowed himself to recall the memory of Phillip underneath him, void of any and all embarrassment as he begged for Sherlock's aid. He thought he was a hallucination, at first. It was easy to let it happen and follow the sweet scent of his heat. Sherlock could clearly remember the sting of Anderson's teeth and the rough texture of his unkempt beard as he bent over Sherlock, sweaty, slick. He'd whispered nonsense into his skin and had taken his pleasure without a care. He had been eased by each kiss Sherlock pressed into his skin. Numerous times they had come together, although Sherlock was careful not to leave marks, whereas Phillip remained unconcerned. The image aroused him, but no more than usual.

That was exactly the problem. When Sherlock attempted to imagine any of his (very) small inner circle in the same position, he was rewarded with revulsion. Phillip Anderson evoked an emotional, albeit detached (lust was a feeling that held no _strings_ ), response. The thought of him pregnant, however, caused the feeling to double. Sherlock frowned, conjuring imaginary scenarios where Phillip was both impregnated and already pregnant. When he imagined himself in place of a random stranger, his reaction was much more virile. His cock gradually thickened; his breathing became more elevated. If he looked in the mirror, he would not be surprised to find his pupils dilated. It remained clear to him: on some level, something had changed between Phillip Anderson and himself, enough that Sherlock, who prided himself on his self-control, could feel himself losing a battle with his cock.

He ignored it for the time being. His thoughts turned to the baby.

He couldn’t remember her name, if it had been mentioned. For some reason, this disquieted Sherlock. He also wondered why she had reacted so badly to his presence. A part of his chest ached when he thought about her face streaked with tears.

 _“Of course I didn't tell you about her, you_  psychopath _!”_

Strange, that when he thought about Anderson, his flat, and the baby, he didn’t feel the anger that he had come to expect. Rather, Sherlock felt guilt; a surprising amount. Therefore, his conclusions were obvious and clear to even the greatest of fools. No matter what his mind or body kept telling himself, Sherlock was now convinced that Anderson—Phillip—had not started to factor in as something that mattered in his life. He _cared_. About his _feelings._

Sherlock needed to make certain that the variables hadn’t resulted the change in a mere fluke.

He needed to see Phillip and the baby again.

* * *

Phillip expected to be left alone for months. He wasn’t under the impression that he would never see Sherlock again, but he was very surprised to find him standing in front of his door only weeks later.

 _What the hell is_ he  _doing here?_ Phillip pulled away angrily from the peephole.

After a serious pause, he elected to ignore it. He didn’t have time to shuffle between two rooms, entertaining idiots while Lily was in a wriggling mood. Turning, he brought Lily back into the changing room for a new nappy. He powered her bum carefully as she kicked at the air, trying to reach for something unseen. She was quickly wrapped in her nappy and then put in her crib. Phillip was pleased to note that it was getting easier. “There you are,” he cooed, just as the door received a pounding.

Again, he ignored it.

The sound grew louder.

Phillip sighed explosively and shared a look with Lily, who burbled unhelpfully. 

"Prick," he muttered. Phillip made his way to the door and opened it a crack. It was just to save them both the trouble of his neighbor’s ire, he told himself.

"Phillip," said Sherlock in greeting.

“ _What_ ,” he spat. Phillip was keenly aware that his chin sported a few day’s worth of growth, and he was wearing a ratty jumper again. 

“May I come in?” Sherlock was the picture of innocence.

Phillip wanted to punch him. Instead, he vied for a less destructive method and hissed, “Go away.” As he closed the door behind him, Sherlock inserted his foot smoothly, catching it just before it closed. When Phillip moved away from the door, he took the opening for what it was and slipped in behind him.

The flat remained largely unchanged but for the toys littering the floor. Some of them were educational, sporting letters or holding cognitive significance. Sherlock recognized many learning tools that he himself had come across in his lucrative study.

He looked up when Phillip returned, the baby tucked safely in his arms. Expecting him to start hissing like a feral cat, Sherlock was unprepared to see him sigh and scratch the back of his neck. “Fine, have it your way. Since you’re already inside, you might as well tell me why you’re here before I call the police.”

Sherlock continued to stare at the child, expecting her to throw a tantrum. Rather than being afraid of Sherlock, she seemed merely curious this time. Her thumb was pressed firmly in her mouth, and wide, grey eyes peered at him. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with this change of pace. He waved, and her face broke into a toothless smile.

His heart clenched unnecessarily.

 “I—“ His reason for coming now suddenly seemed feeble and disconnected. Phillip wouldn’t understand that he needed more data for his conclusions—it wouldn’t make sense. And it would only further cement the idea that he was a senseless robot.

There was something else he needed to do, in any case. “I wanted to,” he almost choked on the words.  _Apologise. Say it._  "I should apologise for my behavior, shouldn't I.” Phillip looked reasonably surprised. Sherlock quickly added, “John informed me that I spoke out of turn. I am inclined to agree.”

The surprise on Phillip’s face faded and he snorted. “Of course. Watson’s the only one with sense around here. Great.” Sherlock was certain he conveyed his intentions and relaxed. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you apologise.” He looked wary, lost in thought before he turned and walked further into the flat. ”All right, not saying I forgive you, but you shouldn’t just apologise to me. Apologise to _her._ "

He held out the child, waiting.

Sherlock looked at the baby. Something unfamiliar tugging at his heart. He hesitated, feeling ridiculous, but no less determined. He had done worse for a case. “I’m sorry to...?” he looked at Phillip for confirmation.

“Lillian,” he supplied reluctantly. “But I call her Lily.”

“Lillian, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding completely serious.

There was no indication that she understood a word he said. She burbled something unintelligible and wriggled her feet.

Phillip grinned. “Good. Now that that’s out of the way, I’m actually busy, so if you could kindly get out, that would be nice.”

Panicked, Sherlock tried to find a reason to stay longer. He needed more _time_. “You remember that I left the crime scene evidence here. Lestrade will want them back.”

“Don’t bother,” said Phillip. “I already gave them back. Now was there…something else? You seem keen on staying.”

He didn’t want to leave just yet. There was more to do—Lillian was something that weighed heavily on his mind. He wanted to…hold her, he realised. To gather data, of course. Sherlock probed his brain for a plausible way to ask for permission without frightening Phillip. He already smelled of tension and wariness, which was beginning to grate on Sherlock’s nerves. To further exacerbate his emotional state would result in nothing but trouble for Sherlock. 

“How is Lillian—Lily doing?” he asked.  _Small talk_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like John echoed _. Sometimes people need it to feel comfortable._ However, instead of comfortable, Phillip looked disturbed.

“Sherlock—Holmes,” he corrected, “You don’t have to pretend to care. You’ve got what you want, haven’t you? I accept your apology, blah blah blah, go away. John's happy, no skin off your back.”

“I don't need John's approval," Sherlock lied. "And he didn't put me up to this. Am I not allowed to inquire about her health?”

“Not when it’s  _you_ ,” Phillip snapped. “There’s always an ulterior motive. You can’t expect me to accept this—“ he gestured to all of Sherlock, “—when just a few weeks ago you were claiming I was an unfit parent!”

“I apologized,” Sherlock shot back. “I was being insensitive, ignorant, and  _careless."_

Phillip slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. "Did they make you memorize that before coming here?"

A flash of irritation crossed Sherlock's face. "I’m not an idiot. I’m _interested_ , Anderson, as impossible as that is for you to understand. She _is_ a product of the two of us, of course I want to know about her. Happy?”

If anything, Phillip looked even unhappier. “Your interest doesn’t concern me. She’s not yours.” Something wild lit up his eyes. “She’s _my_ daughter.”

Ah. Of course! _Stupid_. Phillip's insecurities were as obvious as they had been weeks ago. “Must we do this song and dance?” Sherlock said, purposefully weary. “I’m not here to steal your daughter from you. I am _curious_! If it will make you less paranoid, I can tell you that what I see is different from the last time I invaded your flat. A show of good will, if you like.”

Still smelling faintly of distress, Phillip’s arms twitched, as if he wanted to hide Lily from Sherlock’s sight. "All right. Fine." He started bouncing her as she grew restless in his stiff hold. "If you're going to do it, just do it. I'd like to see what the great and powerful Sherlock Holmes sees now."

Perfect. With the opportunity to show off and not piss off the other party, Sherlock went to work. “She’s a chewer, or more accurately, a biter. From the appearance of her favourite toy, seeing that much was child’s play. She enjoys foods with sugar and dislikes vegetables. Carrots, to be specific. You’ve created a mixture that pleases her palate enough that she tolerates the taste.”

Lily turned her head into Phillip’s neck, pressing her nose unwittingly into the warm skin. Then she looked at Sherlock and gurgled around her thumb.

“She is, um,” Sherlock trailed off, enchanted. His mind went _blank._

Phillip shifted her in his arms, raising one eyebrow. 

“Not bad, Holmes. I'd ask how you knew that, but I learned my lesson a long time ago: don't question anything or you'll get fired." He allowed some bitterness to seep into his voice.

Thrown, it took moments for Sherlock to recover. He'd wanted to say so much more; he had observed so much more. Still pleased by the reaction he received, he inclined his head. "Indeed."

"Yes. Well. Again, that was very impressive, but for the record I’m _not_ letting you conduct any experiments on my daughter. I know what your interest is like. Two words: eyeballs and microwave.” If Phillip sounded very unhappy, he had a right to it. Sherlock’s scent was distracting him and making him feel…tingly. He’d _almost_ begun to forget that Sherlock was an unwelcome guest in his home. “Now, I have things to do, and you are, in fact, in the way.”

“Perfect! Then I’ll come along,” Sherlock interrupted him mid-sentence. He strolled confidently over to Phillip’s table and sat in the nearest chair, the picture of innocent patience. “You’ll hardly even notice me. I have yet to observe Lily in an outside environment.”

"Observe her in the— what? No! You don’t get to come along! I still haven’t forgiven you and you’re—just—“ He scowled, rubbing his forehead. At this rate he would be sporting a migraine. “Bloody Holmes.”

Before Sherlock could respond, the doorbell rang. Phillip gave a harsh sigh. “Please tell me that’s the new pram I ordered.” He rushed to peer into the peephole. Lily squealed loudly when the doorbell rang a second time. After confirming that it was, indeed, his latest Amazon order, Phillip sought for a place to put Lily, casting his gaze around wildly. Her cot was in the other room, but he didn't like leaving her alone when he knew he was going to be busy for a while. Not to mention Sherlock was right there, staring at him with those eyes of his. He bounced her gently in his arms before  _reluctantly_  (he would like to stress that fact) settling on Sherlock. It would be stupid of him not to take advantage of the situation. He just had to convince himself that he wasn't afraid Sherlock was going to suddenly demand that he take Phillip's daughter away.

“For Christ’s sake, just— here. Just take her for a second.” He shoved Lily in Sherlock’s arms, paused; hovering indecisively, and then rushed opened the door. 

Sherlock was completely unprepared. He looked at Lily with wide eyes. How was he meant to hold her? When her eyes turned wobbly and watered, like she might cry, Sherlock made a distressed sound and quickly put her over his shoulder, the same position she had been a moment before. Her little fists clutched at his shirt, and she shoved her face into his neck, sniffing lightly.

His heart stopped. It hit Sherlock like a cold dip in the Thames that he was holding  _his_  baby—a biological offspring that carried half of his DNA. Previous expectations had been exceeded. No amount of study could have prepared him for the feeling of the tiny, warm body pressed against his chest. Her skin was soft and smelled faintly of coconuts; her scent was clean, a mixture of something essentially _new_ and very specific traces of Phillip. Her curls tickled his chin until he found himself starting to smile.

The shock must have transformed something else in his expression, because when Phillip looked over, he started the hurry the delivery woman, waves of something unfamiliar pouring off of him. Sherlock didn’t have the mind to analyze his reaction; he was focused completely on Lily. As he supported her by her bum, Sherlock felt the sway of intense emotion threatening to pull him in directions he had not come to expect in this particular experience.

It felt suspiciously like caring.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love each and every one of you! I hope you enjoy this somewhat short chapter.

To no one's surprise, Sherlock made his escape the moment that Phillip snatched his daughter out of the consultant’s hands. He made his excuses, looking somewhat bewildered, and when the door was shut behind him, Phillip breathed a short sigh of relief. Lily popped her thumb in her mouth, unconcerned by the shifting of hands.

Apparently she had decided she didn’t hate Sherlock, although she wasn’t making any efforts to drool on his shoulder affectionately. Phillip was King in that regard.

“Good riddance. We don't need him Lily, do we. No, we don't,” he cooed. "You're  _my_ little girl."

Phillip assembled the pram on his own. It wasn’t difficult work, and he felt ridiculously accomplished afterwards. Lily seemed happy enough as well, and this meant that he could take her out with him when he went to the park.

Another few days passed. Phillip attempted to stop thinking about Sherlock, and failed. Lily enjoyed the park more than expected and he found himself prone to daily walks, having nothing else with which to occupy his time. Maternity leave was going to end soon enough, and he wasn't certain he wanted to continue the life of the thankless teacher. It wasn't that he hated the job, but the exhaustion he had encountered at the end of every day meant even considering going back made Phillip feel hesitant. He was stuck in a bind, considering other options without knowing if he should pursue them. He just didn’t know what to _do_.

"What do you suppose we should do, sweetie?" Lily pressed her face against his chest and smacked her lips.

The tension surrounding Phillip eased some. Instead of worrying about the future, he spent time that would be of much more value when it was with his daughter. It was very easy to forget important matters when Lily flashed her perfect little, toothless smile. For a few hours, he entertained the idea that he could live a life that didn't involve a Holmes. A new lock was taken into consideration. 

The next morning he received an invitation card.

In simple, black lettering were the words _An Invitation To Tea_ , followed by a few simple lines.

 _The pleasure of your company is requests_  
_for afternoon tea_  
_Saturday between three and five o’clock_

At the bottom it was signed by the name Mycroft Holmes, in perfect cursive. Phillip turned the note over, attempting to make heads or tails of the legitimacy while he bounced a gurgling baby on his hip. There was no mistaking the name Holmes, and Mycroft sounded suspiciously familiar.

Thinking back, Phillip could vaguely remember seeing a nameless man visit Sherlock—and subsequently, crime scenes—repeatedly throughout the years. He’d always assumed the man was saying “my cock”, quite hilariously, when it was in truth his relative. Brother, perhaps.

“It appears I’ve been invited to tea,” he drawled. “I suppose I should compose a reply.” He barked a laugh. “I’ve never gotten such a nice invitation before. This is really weird. And a bit creepy.”

* * *

When Phillip stepped outside, it was as if London had changed overnight. The October air was much chillier than he recalled, and the trees that sprinkled his street were coloured by oranges, reds, and yellows. For that Lily earned herself a full set of thermal coats, hats, and scarves. His date with the elder Holmes was to take place at a public place located in central-London called _The Teahouse_.

Phillip arrived ten minutes early to gather his bearings and prepare himself, and then made a beeline for the table that they had agreed upon in the case that Phillip had forgotten what Mycroft Holmes looked like. Aside from a vague recollection of scolding Lestrade for letting another nameless man onto the crime scene, dressed in a stylish three-piece suit, he had forgotten exactly that.

When he arrived, it was to dismay that he noted a man was already seated where he was meant to. After giving him more than a cursory glance, Phillip realized it was _Mycroft_ , also ten minutes early.

He wasn’t Sherlock, so his overly polite early arrival was less annoying than it was intimidating. The tea in front of him looked as though it had long ago cooled.

“Mr. Holmes,” he greeted, settling himself into the seat opposite. Lily squirmed, unaccustomed to the area and its people. Phillip shifted her so she had easy access to his throat. “I thought we had agreed to meet at four and not three-thirty.”

If Mycroft was surprised by his appearance, he made no show of it. “It never hurts to be early,” he remarked instead. “I see that you’ve brought the child with you. There’s nothing on this menu that would benefit her, unfortunately. The tea is hardly what I would consider _stellar_ either, but I thought you would prefer a public place for this meeting. I know that my brother has been harassing you very close to home. I would give you the courtesy of not doing the same.”

“Yes, he has, but I don’t think that’s why you’re here. You wouldn’t want to meet me just to apologise.”

Mycroft smiled insincerely. “I think you and I are both aware as to why I’m here. Your child, what’s her name?”

Phillip shook his head. “I really think I don’t. Both you and Sherlock keep me in the dark when it comes to whatever the two of you plot on your own time. I have no idea why I’m here.” He took a fortifying breath and tugged his daughter closer to his body. “And her name is Lillian. Lily.”

Mycroft looked at Lily for an uncomfortable amount of time before returning his gaze to Phillip. “My apologies. Sometimes I presume too much with the company that I usually entertain. I have grown out of talking to people who are _normal_." He paused and offered a consolatory smile. "No offense intended, of course.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine, really,” Phillip replied. He blushed, feeling a little embarrassed for his forward accusations. “I’m used to Sherlock’s…ways, but I’m just not sure what to make of this.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “No point beating around the bush, I suppose.” He leaned forward, fingers threaded above the table. “Mr. Anderson, while my brother may not offer his support, that does not mean the rest of our family is composed of boundless heathens.” Mycroft leaned back, regarding Phillip seriously.

“I wish to offer _my_ full support in your endeavors.”

Phillip’s eyes narrowed. “And what does your full support entail?”

“Anything that she needs. Books, toys, education; whatever you desire.”

Phillip blinked, failing to hide the extent of his surprise. “You’re joking. You’re just going to help me out of the kindness of your heart? I find that hard to believe.”

“Do try to contain your excitement, for I am telling the truth. No catch.” Mycroft raised his hands in a placating manner. “I confess that I have _some_ ulterior motive. I never expected either of us—that is, Sherlock and myself—to carry on our family name, and yet imagine my surprise when I found my brother had procreated with another human being of sound sanity. ”

Phillip wisely decided not to mention his life before Sherlock came back from the bloody dead, and smiled awkwardly. “Thanks, I think. That's very kind of you. I'm just not sure...”

“Now the chance has been presented, I would like to offer my aid. Do with that what you will; just know that I am here if either of you need assistance.” He paused, and then added, “If you need a sitter, for example. I’m aware that my brother’s scheme and your own doubts cost you your job. The old one, I mean. I have several applications for which one might find your talents useful.”

“Wait, are you— are you offering me a _job_?” He couldn’t bloody believe this. It must be a dream.

“In frank terms, yes. You will, of course, be tested on your abilities, but the connections are there, should you so wish to pursue them. I’ll certainly be in touch.” Mycroft Holmes smiled more warmly than Phillip expected. 

He couldn't believe it. A job? With another Holmes, at that. Phillip was in a state of shock for the next hour as they spoke of this and that, discussing Lily, Sherlock, and Anderson's own job in turn. Eventually, Mycroft signaled the end of the meeting when he made some excuses about his work and rose to shake his hand.

Lily whimpered as he drew close, burying her face in his neck.

Mycroft hesitated for a split second.

“She does so resemble him. It’s almost uncanny.” There was a mark of sorrow in Mycroft’s voice, one that Phillip couldn’t pinpoint.

“She’s like that with everyone,” he offered uselessly. “They say babies are very attuned to the scents of others. She _hated_ Sherlock.” He didn't mention that she had quickly grown used to his presence.

“Ah, then she really does take after him.” Mycroft smiled. “Sherlock did not take to our father for a very long time. He was a splendid baby, but a terror as a child, as you can imagine.”

Phillip's lips quirked. “If he was anything like he is now, it’s not a stretch to imagine it.”

There was a moment of companionable silence and then Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Well, I’ll forward my address and phone number to you in case you need anything. It was good to see you in the flesh after so long, Mr. Anderson. And outside of a crime scene.”

Phillip shook his hand with warmth, still reeling. “Likewise, Mr. Holmes. I might need some time to think about all of this.”

“Rest assured that my offer will not expire. And please,” he chided, “call me Mycroft.” They parted amicably. Mycroft left, though not without sneakily paying the bill. Phillip stayed, ravenous after their short meeting. He considered Mycroft's offer for a good, long while.

He just hoped he wouldn’t come regret it.


	7. Chapter 7

Phillip didn’t contact Mycroft as the weeks passed, biding his time. After a few days of restlessly waiting for his inevitable intervention, Mycroft showed that he was considerate enough to give Phillip space; he never once sent him any missives, save for a quick thank you note about tea. Thinking about made Phillip's skin crawl. He was distracted by thoughts of espionage and traveling to different countries on the same day, like something out of a Bond film. What if Mycroft expected him to drop everything and work for him 24/7? What if he tried to take custody of Lily because she was the only heir? What if Sherlock was in on it and the two of them were playing him?

 _You're being paranoid_ , he told himself.  _Mycroft was nothing but kind to you. Even if it was a bit...creepy._

Despite the relative kindness that was offered by Mycroft, it was difficult to absolve himself of all anxiety. Mycroft was not a man to be trifled with. He was cool, confident, and powerful. He was also an alpha. Phillip caught himself fingering Mycroft's business card too many times to count, but never had the guts to take him up on his offer. 

 _What would that even be like?_ he wondered for the thousandth time. It was easy to imagine Mycroft as a Bond villain, but the reality had to be so much more mundane. Maybe he was as much a pen-pusher as the next man.

The thought startled a laugh out of Phillip. He had to admit that it was impossible to imagine anyone in the Holmes' family doing anything _mundane,_ let alone office work. 

Phillip was startled out of his thoughts when he noticed that his doorknob was rattling. _Again?_ Suppressing a sigh, he went to investigate. A quick look through the peephole and he could barely make out the dark material of Sherlock's coat. He counted to ten, giving Sherlock time, and then yanked open the door.

“How many times is that now, twelve?” he asked.

Sherlock looked up at him without remorse. “You’ve been keeping count; I’m impressed. Eventually it might even convince you to get a stronger lock.”

“It would be harder if you weren’t so predictable,” Phillip quipped, and then moved out of the way. Sherlock swept past him and made for Lily in her high chair. "I'd take that into consideration if you managed to break the one I have now." 

Hard-pressed, Phillip would be ashamed to admit that this wasn't the first time that this had happened.

After he met with Mycroft, Sherlock had started turning up with increasing regularity. Phillip theorized that it was because the two of them had some sort of sick rivalry going on, but there was no evidence, and Sherlock refused to elaborate when he confronted him.

The first time that he arrived, only days after Phillip had contact with Mycroft, he claimed that he could smell Mycroft on him. "His cologne is very distinct," he claimed. "I smells of a desperation, made specifically for rich, pompous alphas."

The possessive glint in his eye made Phil’s stomach swoop.

“Right." Phillip blinked at him, not sure how to handle that particular bit of information. "And you care because…?”

“He may have inflicted premature scarring on your daughter,” he said, reaching for Lily as if it was he most natural thing in the world. Phillip didn't bother to hide his disbelief. “Surveying the damage may be necessary.” 

As if on cue, Lily began whimpering. 

"Say I belief you," Phillip ventured, before Sherlock could look too smug. "Not that I do, but let's pretend that you really can smell her on me. Why should I trust you?"

"Do you trust my brother?" 

It gave Phillip pause. "Fair enough," he said, and held her out. Pleased by the ease in which he succeeded, Sherlock didn’t understand why it was so until he pulled her close and was assaulted with the stench.

"Ugh. That is disgusting. Does it always smell like that?"

Phillip grinned. “If you’re so keen on checking up on _my_ daughter, feel free to do the grunt work. I’d love to watch this. Just be careful,” he added. "Have you even changed a baby's diaper? You know what, never mind. Give her back to me." 

"Ah, ah. Allow me to prove to you that I've been studying. In the interest of her growth, I have been brushing up on my quintessential knowledge."

"Brushing up," Phillip repeated. "Since when do you know how to take are of a baby?"

Rather than answer him, Sherlock carried her into the next room, looking every bit at home in Phillip’s somewhat dingy flat. He quickly unwrapped Lily, disposed of the diaper, and then began the process of cleaning her. As Sherlock worked, Phillip was silently furious with her that she was so quiet. He wasn't horrible. If anything, Sherlock was actually doing _well._  Phillip didn’t usually allow himself to feel inferior to Sherlock any longer, but when it came to his daughter, his issues with his own insecurity and self-loathing made it hard not to hate him.

"There!" Sherlock declared, holding her up. The diaper was slightly low on her hips, fastened somewhat incorrectly. Phillip felt pathetically relieved. Still, to his credit, she looked comfortable.

"Not bad, Holmes," said Phillip. He took her back into his arms and pressed a kiss to her forehead. When she smiled, it reminded him inexplicably of Sherlock. 

Sherlock's voice brought him back to the present. He was asking about Lily, something that Phillip had completely missed.

"What was that? And aren't you hot under there? Why don't you take off your coat," Phillip said. "If you're staying for a while, I mean."

Sherlock looked like he hadn't even noticed it. "I will," he said. After a pause, he slid it off of his shoulder and deposited over his arm. 

Cor, he was gorgeous. Phillip forgot that underneath all that cotton there was a full-blooded, presumably rich alpha. Slim and sexy, his clothes screamed  _designer._ He looked completely out of place in Phillip's flat. 

Swallowing down his arousal, Phillip couldn’t help wondering what Sherlock thought of their surroundings. It wasn't anything like Baker Street, which had character and charm to speak it up. It certainly wasn't anything expensive either. It was simple, much like Phillip.  _Is a new flat something Mycroft intended when he said ‘anything I need’?_

Remembering himself, Phillip asked, “Would you like any tea?” at the same time that Sherlock declared, “Your flat is perfectly adequate.”

Phillip stared at him. “What?”

Of all things, Sherlock looked embarrassed. “You were wondering whether or not I found your surroundings distasteful. I don’t. They are adequate. Tea is unnecessary, although the sentiment is appreciated. You don't need to make me feel welcome, Phillip.”

The sound of his name in Sherlock's mouth gave him chills. God, he was like a tween finding his first fancy. "Well I'd like some tea. You can join me in the kitchen then, unless you'd rather stay here." After picking up Lily, he didn't wait for Sherlock's response to make his way into his small kitchen. There he started the process of making a fresh pot, which involved little more than starting some warm water in the kettle. 

Sherlock stood by him, waiting patiently. When he needed free hands, Phillip placed Lily in his arms. She was going to be completely spoiled after this; she'd never want to be put down. Already she complained when Phillip left her alone to her toys, or the high chair.

In the silence that followed, Phillip was struck by how peculiar his life had become. A few weeks ago he hadn't been able to think about Sherlock without either getting sad or angry. Now he was holding his daughter and drinking tea in his flat. 

“You know," he began. "Before this, I hadn’t really met your brother—outside of a crime scene, I mean. We’ve met before, of course. He used to come by occasionally when you’d already left, or if he wanted to demand something of us.” He remembered being intimidated even then. “I know you're curious about what he said. The scent thing is bullshit, by the way. You two have your weird rivalry-thing. He offered money, if you must know. Things. Toys for Lily, I suppose. Not exactly sure what made him want to do _that_. As far as we’re concerned…” he swallowed. The hair on his neck prickled.  Brilliant, he was babbling. As far as it concerned Sherlock and him, there was nothing to be found.

When he looked back, Sherlock was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. “For information?” he asked. 

“Information? What?” Phillip looked at Lily, who was wriggling in Sherlock's hold. He still didn't hold her completely right. “Does he normally ask for—“ 

“Information on me,” Sherlock interrupted, shifting Lily with surprising ease. “His motives are never that innocent. Did he offer his services if you tattled on his little brother?” He paused and gave Phillip a once-over. Phillip didn't know what he saw, because before he could even offer an answer, Sherlock was speaking. “Oh, _idiot_. Obvious. It wasn’t for me, it was for _you_.”

“Me?” Phillip blinked, still playing catch up. He turned to continue prepping the tea, keep his hands busy. 

“Yes, you.” Rather than annoyed, Sherlock appeared fond, of all things. If the space between them had seemed close before, Sherlock wanted to be even closer. He approached Phillip with a singular determination, looking far too curious for his own good. Phillip automatically took a step back, resisting every instinctual urge that told him to show his throat. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What would your brother want with a washed up beta with only one serious job under his belt?” _Just keep him talking_ , he told himself. "I don't understand the two of you. You're both annoyingly cryptic." 

Sherlock was still inching closer. His grin released butterflies in Phillip’s stomach.  

“You were the only one to ever refuse to work with me then, even when I brought the police precious results. You’ve never submitted to me, even though you produced an heir—her. Most would find that remarkable, you know, but to you, oh, it's so _obvious.”_   Sherlock's gaze was warm, eyes gone soft as he looked down at Lily. Phillip felt liquid heat settle along with the butterflies.

“I’m a beta, if you hadn't noticed. And submitting to you isn’t something I’ve ever done. Did you think I'd submit to you just because alpha hags think that every omega and beta in sight should bear their next to the 'rightful alpha'?" Phillip chuckled until it fell flat. "You’re not usually one for stating the obvious.” 

His back met the wall. Sherlock met his eyes.

“Ah, but I haven’t mentioned the most interesting bit. You were the only one to _believe_ in me. Of _course_ Mycroft would be interested.”

 _What about you? Are you interested?_ he wanted to ask. He still felt bitter. Phillip had always assumed Sherlock didn’t care, but to have Sherlock say it out loud, like he _mattered—_ well _,_ it was far more than he had come to expect. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his mouth. For a dangerous moment, it felt like Sherlock was going to do something like kiss him. Phillip didn’t know what he would do if something like that happened. It wouldn’t, though. Sherlock wasn’t interested in someone like him. He had more than enough baggage to weigh them both down.

 _Sentiment,_ he would sneer. Phillip's eyes followed Sherlock's tongue as it swiped across his lower lip.

He’d forgotten how vivid Sherlock’s eyes were.

Lily started coughing. Their attention snapped to her just in time to see her vomit down the side of Sherlock’s coat.

“Well,” Phillip remarked. “That was…” He took a fortifying breath and picked Lily out of Sherlock’s rigid arms. “Best take that off before it stains. I'm so sorry. That's a really nice coat,” he added, his cheeks growing hot. He was suddenly, achingly aware of every imperfection on him. He was wearing his worst jumper, carrying stains like a badge, and he was in desperate need of a shave. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Without a word Sherlock followed Phillip into his bedroom, where he pulled out a couple of products that would hopefully keep it from staining. “I don’t suppose I want to know how much that coat cost.”

Sherlock met his eyes. His lips quirked. “Probably not. It’s been through worse—you remember my work, so you don’t have to concern yourself with any sort of payment.”

Sometimes Phillip pretended that he wasn't completely oblivious. Why did Sherlock have to notice everything? He looked away. “Still, I feel bad. Lily’s just a baby, but it is kind of my responsibility.” He bit his lip, chewing on dry skin. He mentally added lip balm to his endless grocery list.

Sherlock moved closer to watch him absent-mindedly. “Hardly. I could have predicted the outcome had I not been distracted.”

 _By our conversation. By you_  hung unspoken between them. 

Phillip’s heart beat uncomfortably in his chest. His movements were sharp as he dabbed at Sherlock’s coat. _Get over yourself, idiot_. _Just stop thinking about him like that._  “You must know by now that you can’t deduce everything. And sometimes you _are_ wrong.”

“I never claimed perfection, but it’s much easier to manipulate the situation when people are inclined to believe you.”

When Phillip could look at Sherlock again, he met his eyes. “I never wanted to put up with your bullshit,” Phillip said. He smirked wryly. “Sometimes it seemed like you were pulling deductions right out of your arse.”

Sherlock snorted. "My methods deserve more appreciation. Deduction is far more accurate than your people’s tawdry methods.”

“ _My_ methods?”

Realizing, his mistake, Sherlock amended his statement.  “The police." There was an awkward pause. "You _were_ one of the forensics team.”

A bitter feeling curled in his chest; inexplicably, the longing was almost as sharp as it had been when he’d first been fired. Phillip looked at Lily, the center of his new world, and then at Sherlock, who he had long-regarded as the cause to his failures.

He felt bitterness, but no regret. He missed that life, but this new chapter wasn't so bad. 

“I was,” he said.

“Have you considered my brother’s job offer?”  

Phillip blinked. “How did you—? Never mind. I don’t know why I bother.” There was a smile in his voice. “I have thought about it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You could do something similar to before,” Sherlock urged. “Something more important.”

Phillip stared at Sherlock’s coat, which now only needed a thorough wash. He’d done everything he could. Warily, Phillip met his eyes. “Why are you asking? I thought you were against the idea five minutes ago.” 

Sherlock sighed. “While I disagree with my brother, I have recently come to the conclusion that such a lifestyle might benefit you. You’re _bored._  I know well what chaos boredom causes.” 

“What?" He laughed. “No, I’m not. Especially not of my own daughter. I'm very happy where I am, thanks.”

Sherlock got that familiar look in his eyes that made something warm bloom inside Phillip.

”Lily can only fill so much time. You leave your home far more often than is necessary.” He gestured to his feet. “Your shoes, which are relatively new, are already worn at the left side of the sole where you tend to lean when you’ve been on your feet for more than a few hours. If you were as content as you say, the wear in those shoes would not be as severe." Sherlock gave the room a cursory glance. "The flat is pristine, but that isn’t your meticulous nature; rather, it’s something to do with your time.”

Phillip was simultaneously touched and repulsed. To be worthy of deduction was one thing, but it also meant that Sherlock would lay bare what he was seeing, piece by piece.

Still, he’d forgotten how attractive he found Sherlock when he was in deduction mode. “Wow,” he croaked, hoping he sounded like he wasn’t turned on. “How did you know about the shoes? I don’t remember you being there when I bought them.”

“Observation is not restricted to such constraints.” Sherlock smirked. “You’re just very obvious.”

“I don’t even have a response. I'm _not—_ " He picked Lily out of Sherlock's arms, who had begun to fuss. _Hungry_ , he thought. She could wait a moment. “How did you—? You know what, let me try again." He breathed. "I’ll forgive you for implying that I’m bored of Lily if you tell me how you figured that out.”

“What?” Sherlock looked surprised, like he’d expected him to say something else.

“Walk me through it,” Phillip insisted. “Prove that that wasn’t all guesswork. Assuming you can.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Fine.” He whipped around and pointed to the bathroom. “The first clue is the state of your bathroom.”

Phillip wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure I like where this is going."

“Just _listen_.” Sherlock walked over and opened the door to his medicine cabinet and the cupboard below the sink. “Look at this; it’s a mess. You have pills and bottles strewn about here,” he knelt and pulled out a hairdryer, “and cords tangled with various cosmetic oddities. This is not the sign of a meticulous person.”

He shut the doors, swept past Phillip, and opened his closet.

“As I expected, your closet is completely unorganized and you haven’t made an effort to put away the clothes in the hamper. Could be that your time is taken up by your daughter, but by the wear of the carpet by your front door, I think not.” He shut the door and led Phillip into the living room. “There are patterns of tarnish on the dishes drying over your sink.” Sherlock’s voice rose, in what seemed like a mockery of a suspicious observer. “Aren’t they just old? No, no, they’re clearly new. Some of the unused ones in the cupboard still have _tags_ on them, for god’s sake, yet they’ve been washed to the point that the silver is tarnished. You shouldn't be using the dishwasher for those, by the way.”

Phillip’s face was hot. His heart hammered in his chest. "Thanks. I was...wondering about that." 

“You're welcome." He paused, turned. "And over here, we have dust.” He swiped his finger across the windowsill and brandished it for Phil to see. “It’s clear that you put effort in the most mundane tasks to absorb time, yet you remain lazy in the more meticulous matters. It’s simple: you’re bored.” Sherlock brushed his finger onto his pants, looking pleased. Perhaps he was.

Phillip was pleased in a very different way. He hoped that Sherlock couldn’t tell how dilated his pupils were. After years of pouring over every observation offered by Sherlock or that he could remember, Phillip had developed something of an unhealthy obsession with his powers of deduction.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so it was up to Phillip to break the silence. “That was…not bad, actually. God, I forgot how thrilling that is.” He mentally slapped himself for sounding like an obsessed groupie.

“What I mean is,” Phillip hurried to say at the same time Sherlock replied, “thank you." 

Surprised, they both went silent.

Lily burbled and started to paw at Phillip’s chest. Ah, right. When he met Sherlock’s curious eyes, he was sure that his face was the color of a tomato.

“Oh. Oh!” Sherlock breathed. “You have to…”

“Yes,” Phillip mumbled. He felt humiliated. Sherlock was probably disgusted with the messy biology of it all. “You’re still the genius I remember, _clearly_. I’ll walk you to the door.” It was a polite ‘get out’ as he could manage.

Sherlock kept looking at him like he wanted to say something. Then he turned and allowed Phillip to lead him out.

After that day, Sherlock took it as a silent invitation that he was welcome in Phillip's flat. While it wasn't exactly untrue, he didn't realise how much he appreciated the company until he had come to expect his presence. Even enjoy it, in fact. If he were anyone else, he might have thought that the two of them were becoming _friends_. They had interesting conversation, and after a while Sherlock's presence stopped bothering him like it used to. He liked him. God, he _fancied_ him. 

It was disturbing how much Sherlock was growing on him, when he was sure the opposite wasn't true. He remembered what Sherlock had said; case study. Lily currently held his interest, which meant that Phillip was just the extra part of the package. He was something for Sherlock to occupy his time while he was bored. When the time came that he was no longer interested in their mundane life, he'd stop coming around. Phillip had long come to terms with the idea.

It didn't make it hurt any less, of course. 

* * *

Sally took a drink from her coffee and then gave Phillip a long look.

“You talk an awful lot about a man you claim to hate,” she said.

Phillip flinched. “I never said I _hated_ him.” She gave him a look. “Okay, I will admit that I’ve said it—and meant it. I mean, come on, the things he said. The leaps he would make! Us, being together? He was mad.” He shook his head. “All that aside, I’ve changed my mind. A little. He’s a tosser, but not…he’s…well.”

“Well?” A smile pulled at Sally’s lips. “You’re a little back and forth there. Is he a dick or isn’t he?”

“He is,” he answered immediately. “But he’s gotten better. He can be nice, when he wants to be. Kind.”

Sally was staring at him again. “Don’t tell me you’re seeing him again.”

“No!” Phillip shouted. He received a few looks from the patrons around them. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “’Course not.” _Even if I wanted it_. “He’s just been around a few, _select_ times.” A few dozen select times.

“A few select times?” Sally hissed. “You remember what that bastard said to you? The way he treated you— _us_ —all these years?”

All things considered, Phillip missed Sally. She was like a breath of fresh air that he desperately needed to keep sane. She would be the one to tell him that what he was doing was suicidal. You didn't fancy a dead man and expect him to return the favour. She was also incredibly stubborn.

Holding his cup in front of him like a shield, Phillip shrugged. “Look, you have to admit that we all played a part in that. None of us were very kind to each other. I’m not saying,” he added, at her look of betrayal, “that he has any right or-or- ah, fuck. I’m not explaining this very well.”

When Lily’s toy fell to the floor he leaned on autopilot and put it back in her stroller. It gave him a second to think. 

“Clearly I haven’t been hanging around our esteemed detective enough,” Sally teased, eyes following his movements. “Did you know that he almost squealed when Lestrade promised him a triple murder if he was quiet the other day?”

“How would I know that?” Phillip’s voice was tight. He remembered Sherlock telling him about it. It _did_ sound interesting. “After all this time haven’t you found him just a little bit...endearing?” 

“My god, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. _Endearing_? Sherlock, our Sherlock?” She leaned back and slung her arm over the back of the chair. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t fancy him.” 

His face burned. “I _don’t_ ,” Phillip lied.

“Right, that’s why you had his baby. And you see him on _select occasions_.”

“Sall, if you’re just gonna take the piss, maybe we should reschedule.“ He was only half joking.

“Alright, sorry. I get it, I really do.” Sally grinned and gestured to Lily, her drink sloshing in her mug. “You seem happy, yeah? And if Sherlock’s playing nice, it isn’t my place to judge.” 

Phillip scoffed.

“Seriously,” she said, her tone losing all humour. “I was just teasing you. Sherlock may be a prick, but I don’t hate him. Well, not as much. Anymore. He’s done some things polite company would deem suspicious, but he’s also done some good things. Really good things.” 

Sally looked at her own somber face reflected in her coffee. “You were right about him taking down that crime syndicate with that guy—“

“Moriarty,” he said, voice soft.

“Moriarty, yeah,” she continued, as if either of them could forget. “He came back. You were right and I was wrong.”

Phillip knew how much it hurt her to say that. She spent years thinking he really was going insane. He’d lost his job, his reputation; almost lost his home. “Sally—“

She held up a hand. “No, I have to say it. I’m sorry, Phillip.” She looked him in the eyes. “I wasn’t there when you needed me. God, we were—we were best mates and I let you spiral down into a place I couldn’t reach. Nobody would believe you but your group, and even then, it wasn’t at the level that you were at.”

“Sally…” Phillip couldn’t find the right words. He reached out and took her hand. “It honestly wasn’t as bad as you make it sound. I was doing okay. When Sherlock came back, I—“ He couldn’t bring himself to speak about the mental breakdown, but he ploughed ahead in another direction.  “I was angry. At him, at you, at everyone who I felt had abandoned me.” That still wasn’t right. He took a ragged breath.

“Sally, what I’m trying to say is that I forgive you, okay? You weren’t right, but you weren’t wrong. _I_ let it get out of control. _I_ was obsessed. But that’s behind us now. I’m well. I have Lily.”

Sally met his eyes, some of the previous regret clearing up. She looked at his daughter and then back at him. “Are you sure about it being behind you? You seem pretty chummy with the man that broke your heart.”

Phillip rubbed tiredly at his eyes. He didn’t bother denying it anymore. “I’m fine. I promise. Now can we please talk about something other than Sherlock Holmes? I’ve had enough of him to last me a lifetime.” 

“Righto,” she chirped. “No more Sherlock. Why don’t you tell me about your little girl? Work has kept me busy enough that I haven’t had much chance to visit you. You can't really go to any pubs with that her either, can you?”

“Almost six months. I don't think she's ready for her first drink just yet." He laughed.

"S'pose not. Got any juicy stories?"

"Well,” he paused to think. “She threw up on Sherlock’s expensive wool coat the other day.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock’s epiphanic reaction to the recent turn of events was long coming; however, he did not expect it to come in the form of a small stuffed animal.

After perusing the aisles of the supermarket Tesco’s for the items on his grocery list, Sherlock was surprised to notice that there was a small section of the shop of which he had never previously taken notice: the toy aisle. He wandered closer, inspecting the toys with some amusement. They were clearly gendered; the sheer amount of pink was abysmal.

He picked up one of the blue dolls— _action figures_ , his mind supplied after some digging. Lily would appreciate chewing on the plastic figurine. Her teething was coming along quite nicely, as most of her toys could attest, although he had a feeling that the detachable parts would pose a problem.

Phillip would get a kick out of it, he knew.

Sherlock smiled, warmth tugging at his heart before he realised what he was doing.

He was in the _toy_ aisle, looking at _toys_ —something arbitrary and an unnecessary waste of his time. His inclinations towards John and Mary’s baby had never been so finely tuned that he felt the need to procure her any more than the fundamentals; and he only did that was only when John and Mary specifically asked.

Sherlock stared at the plastic figure before shoving it back in its place and moving on to the rest of his shopping list, his thoughts flying. Logically, he theorized that this strange turn of events had only come to place because the baby was half of his own DNA. It was natural that he felt some responsibility.

However, this did not explain why he felt such gratification by his own initiative. If he were pressed, he might even describe it as _fond_.

Sherlock slowed, reaching for the toilet paper. He conjured an image of Phillip’s smiling face as he watched his daughter form nonsensical words around a bottle. “Ba ba ba,” she said, dribbling onto her chin.

“Bottle, yes. This is your bottle, sweetie,” Phillip replied, sounding proud. Warmth filled Sherlock when he recalled the way Phillip had looked at him afterward, like he wanted nothing more than to be here, with him. It didn’t last long, but the ticklish feeling spread until Sherlock was forced to recognize the feelings.

Happiness. Affection. Longing.

These were not new emotions, and it wasn’t the first time that Sherlock recognized that what he was feeling was related and similar to what he felt for John; it was that he accepted this. _Liked_ it, even.

He had unknowingly become attached to the two of them. Sherlock was even more shocked to find that he didn’t mind. In another life, he expected that he might have been appalled by his behavior; now, he only felt satisfaction. Possession.

His fingers curled into the carton of milk. The thought of Phillip with anyone else made him feel jealousy, similarly to when Mary showed up in John’s life. _He’s mine_ , he remembered thinking on an endless loop as he watch her waltz away with his best friend. Now, it was a similar situation. Sherlock was interested romantically in another human being. That had not happened since the first few confusing years with John, and even longer before that, with Victor.

But there was no one in his way now. If he wanted, he could have Phillip. A fissure of heat ran up his spine.

 _No_ , he amended, rethinking his approach, it wasn’t simply about taking what he wanted—it was more than taking. Phillip eased something in him. Their time together had benefited in many of the ways that friendship did. Sherlock was interested in _more_ than that.

 _John would be_ pleased, he thought. Phillip had already given birth to a child. It was the very picture of the typical ayo (a ridiculous, but useful name for the alpha/omega romantic trope) couple, only the players had changed and it was completely out of order. Not only that, but its beginning wasn’t a happy one. If he wanted to win Phillip’s romantic favour, he was going to have to _work_.

It would certainly be interesting, at the very least.

The first thing that Sherlock needed to do was ascertain whether or not Phillip felt such feelings for him. He had noticed in passing that Phillip was prone to react to his presence, but romantic sensations were on a completely different level. Thorough testing was necessary to obtain a conclusion.

Sherlock gleefully grabbed three more cartons of milk.

When Sherlock returned to Baker Street, John was sitting in his living room.  He couldn’t quite hide his surprise.

“You completely forgot we were going to meet up today, didn’t you?”

“’Course not,” Sherlock lied, lugging groceries into the kitchen. “Knew you’d stop by. I got extra milk. For tea.”

John was grinning as he approached Sherlock. “Tea, right.” He delivered a solid slap to Sherlock’s shoulder before he turned him around and hugging him in a very alpha sort of way. It involved a lot of squeezing and patting. “It’s been how long since we last saw each other?”

“A few weeks, I believe.” Sherlock flashed him a smile. “We’ve both been busy.”

He turned to survey the kitchen and began putting away groceries. John started fussing with him, falling into an old, familiar routine.

“You have a lot of groceries here. Throwing a party without me?” he teased, nudging Sherlock.

“They’re a gift,” Sherlock said with flourish.

“A…gift.” John gave him an odd look. “Who’s receiving this _nice_ gift?” His eyes lit up. “Have you met someone? You do smell a bit…strange. Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“You remember Anderson, I’m sure,” Sherlock said breezily. He was deciding which of the eggs looked most perfectly shaped when he looked back at John. The look this time was even more odd.

“Anderson. Crime scene Anderson? Phillip Anderson?” He shook his head. “Do you mean—?” He paused. “I think I need to sit down for this.”

Sherlock didn’t see the need for the announcement; John remained standing, after all. His surprise made Sherlock feel twitchy.

“Is that _so_ surprising?”

“Well yeah, when the two of you talked last, you weren’t on good terms.”

“Neither were we for some time after my supposed death,” he reminded him. By the way that John was frowning, it hadn’t been the best example. Sherlock put back the eggs and began putting away the rest of the groceries. “Things change.”

“Right…” John breathed slowly, normalizing himself with the idea. The slow rate at which people settled with new information never failed to irritate Sherlock. “So, you and Anderson, you’re…together?”

Sherlock smiled. “Not yet. I intend to court him romantically. Hence the gift. Groceries are practical.” Sherlock waved his hand and moved into the living room. He appeared to be looking for something as he rifled through a mountain of papers. “I’ve devised an experiment that should allow me to—ah! Here it is—conclude his exact feelings for me. There are other things, not just groceries, by the way. Toys as well. Lily likes things that are soft plastic, preferably so she can shove them in her mouth.”

“Wait, wait, hold on a moment, Sherlock. You’re doing…what?” He laughed. “God, it’s been too long if I can’t remember how to follow your train of thought. You plan to court Anderson—er, Phillip. What made you decide to do that?”

“Must we go through this? You know I don’t like to talk about _feelings_.”

“So you admit,” said John, sounding smug, “that you have feelings for him. This isn’t just you being—being you?”

“And what is that meant to imply?” Sherlock asked, vaguely offended. “I _am_ capable of managing my own emotions, John.”

“That’s not what I meant.” John sighed. “I just—want to make sure you’re doing this for the right _reasons_. This isn’t just an experiment this time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical. Why did the world have to take everything he said at face value? Of course Phillip was more than an experiment. It was something he couldn’t quite put into words. He was just…more. _They_ were more.

“It’s a baby, too,” John continued, as if reading his thoughts. “It won’t be like visiting and changing a diaper or two before taking off to do your own thing. You’ll eventually have to live with this person—if you’re serious, that is. It’ll be about compromise and—and—”

“I am a functioning adult. If you forgot,” Sherlock said, working up to a snarl, “I did live without you for years. I even had relationships with other people and everything!”

“Sherlock—fuck. I’m just…worried, I suppose,” he admitted. “The two of you share a baby in common and that’s not necessarily a good thing. I just don’t want you doing this out of curiosity or misplaced guilt. You’re my best friend; I just want you to be happy.”

Sherlock could tell _that_ at least. John sat down on the nearby sofa, giving Sherlock superiority over height, which helped flatten feathers that he hadn’t realise had been ruffled.

John’s words _did_ have merit. While he wasn’t certain that their relationship would last any length of time (Phillip could after all be completely against the idea), it wasn’t based solely on a whim. He couldn’t find a way to convey this to John. There was _too much._

“I know, John,” he said. “It isn’t as if I’ll be bonding with him any time soon. It’s going to very mundane. Gifts, dates—things that I’m aware normal people tend to appreciate.”

“Oh. That’s—good, actually.” John’s fingers uncurled. Two alphas in the same vicinity that were no longer all that familiar with each other’s scent could make things a little tense. “What kind of dates does Sherlock Holmes take someone on?”

Sherlock smiled.  

* * *

There were mainly three things sherlock wanted to focus on for this part of his research into Phillip’s emotions, namely how he would react to his touch, scent and voice.

He began with stage one: touch.

It was pathetically was easy. Sherlock made it a point to brush his fingers against Phillip’s whenever he passed him a specific item. If he needed to squeeze by him in his kitchenette, Sherlock made sure that he pressed both hands on Phillip’s shoulders for leverage.

Where Lily was concerned, it was a simple matter for him to crowd Phillip’s space when he was holding her. When she changed arms, Sherlock pressed close enough that there were centimeters between their heads. He didn’t look directly at Phillip, but he could plainly see a steady flush gathering on his pale cheeks.

Phillip’s pupils dilated no less than three times in close vicinity. His breathing appeared no more erratic than usual, although this did not disappoint Sherlock—he wasn’t expecting Phillip to pant over him like a dog.

“You’re especially clumsy today, Sherlock. You alright?” Phillip asked, looking at him with suspicion.

“Recent case resulted in a head injury,” Sherlock lied.

As Phillip began to fret, it occurred to Sherlock that his excuse would result in more chances to examine Phillip’s reaction to his touch.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “John checked me after. Dizziness is not uncommon.”

“John’s not a doctor anymore,” said Phillip, frustrating beginning to bleed through, “although I don’t think anyone except for me cares about that little fact. Here, let me have a look. If you’re dizzy now, why the hell have you been moving around all day?”

“If I remember correctly, you’re less of a doctor than he is.” He allowed Phillip’s fingers to scrape through his hair to where Sherlock indicated. “What do you expect to find, a gaping wound? I’m _fine_.”

It wasn’t uncomfortable. Sherlock enjoyed the sure way that Phillip gently carded through his hair. (Why had hair sensitivity never occurred to him?).

“I suppose you _seem_ fine. Seriously, if you feel any more dizziness I’m taking you to the hospital.” Phillip’s eyes narrowed. “John can sod off.”

Repressing a shiver, Sherlock forcefully removed his hands. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

“Best not. Don’t tell him about the doctor thing, either.” Phillip chuckled. The sound went straight to Sherlock’s toes.

He let his fingers wrapped around Phillip’s wrists linger. They were far from delicate as his own, rather thick as well. His hands were only a little smaller than Sherlock’s. When he looked up, Phillip was already looking at him, a curious expression on his face. When he met Sherlock’s eyes, he clearly forced It to become blank. 

“Can I have my hands back?” he asked. It was natural of him as a beta to lower his eyes under an alpha’s steady gaze. Phillip fought this, his eyes casting down before they snapped back to Sherlock’s face, challenging him. 

Sherlock _wanted_.

Phillip was released. Sherlock stepped forward into his personal space.

The variables were laying themselves out in front of Sherlock so obviously that he couldn’t help but jump ahead. It had been his intention to wait until the stages of testing had been complete, but Phillip was like a tempting morsel after weeks of starvation.

“I may have a use for them yet,” Sherlock said, his voice taking on the edge of eagerness that he usually saved for a particularly gruesome crime scene. “Come with me to Bart’s tomorrow. Or later. Yes, later would be better. I need to prepare; can’t surprise Molly too soon.”

Phillip was staring at him like he’d grown two heads. He barely refrained from saying _please_.

“There’s something that you might find interesting,” Sherlock blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Body. Some things from the crime scene. That aren’t illegal,” he added.

Phillip’s brows shot to his forehead. He could not have looked more surprised if Sherlock had also broken into dance. “Y-you what? Want me to come…with you.”

“I detest repeating myself. _Yes._ You could use the work, couldn’t you? It’s less boring than this. Lily could be in the capable hands of a sitter.” He paused before pulling his mobile out of his pocket. “I could probably get John to agree to take her for the day, if you’d prefer that.”

“I— I need to think about it.“

Phillip couldn’t sort through his emotions. On one hand, he felt a bubbly giddiness rise up inside of him, like a child in a toy store. On the other, however, a telltale bitterness still lingered, reminding him that Sherlock was spending time with him out of a mixture of guilt and fleeting interest. He was a _pet project._ What would be the point of going back into the world when it wasn’t going to matter the minute Sherlock’s eyes followed something even shinier than Phillip Anderson?

Sherlock was bloody staring at him, his gaze relentless. Didn’t he have any idea how intimidating he could be? Phillip repressed the urge to look down at his feet when he answered him.

“I—yeah. I guess that would be…interesting,” he said, fingers curling into fists. “haven’t seen a dead body in years.”

That pulled a smile from Sherlock. And it wasn’t a lie, _per se_. He _was_ excited, to an extent. It was just rather sudden.

Sherlock grinned maniacally, slapping his palms together loudly. “Good. There’s an opening in a few days; I’ll text you then. You don’t have any pressing engagements.”

“How do you know my schedule better than I do?” Phillip groused, although it lacked heat.

“It helps that you don’t _have_ a schedule yet. You still have two months before your maternity leave ends.”

Phillip tried not to think too hard about that. Mycroft’s offer was beginning to sound as appealing as it was intimidating.

“Maybe I have _do_ have things to do,” he shot back, suddenly annoyed by the assumption.

“What things could you possibly have to do? You haven’t left your flat in a week.”

Cheeks burning, his fingernails bit into his palm, only barely soothing his bubbling anger.

“I can’t just up and leave Lily on your beck and call, you know! I have to have the kitchen stocked and supplies for her, or we’ll both be in a mess. And maybe I’m actually looking for _real_ work,” he lied.  

Sherlock was also beginning to look annoyed.

“Why does that matter? Are you free or aren’t you? I’m trying to be _nice._ ”

It mattered. It _did._ “I know what your version of nice is and I don’t—“ _want._ But he did want _. “—_ need your pity party. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He crossed his arms, feeling Sherlock’s stare pierce through him. “I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

It was a wonder that Sherlock didn’t see through his obvious lie. His lips were twitching with distaste, caught between curling in disgust or pressing thin with disappointment.

The reason that he was fighting Sherlock so hard now, of all times, escaped Phillip. Mostly. It had always bothered him that Sherlock took these liberties like it meant nothing to him, but it would have been easier just to let it go. Sherlock likely wanted free hands to help find the conclusion to a case of his; this bothered him beyond comprehension.

A voice in his head sneered, _You have nothing else to do but sit around and feel sorry for yourself, so you should help Sherlock on whatever errand he has available. You’re desperate for it, just like you always were._

Raw feelings of hurt had been rotting inside of him for a while, but he hadn’t meant to show his hand now. They were supposed to be friendly. _Friends_.

“Fine!” Sherlock spat, throwing his hands into the air. His lips were a thin line of malcontent.  “You’re an unnecessary component, in any case. Feel free to rot in your flat for the rest of your life if it makes you happy.”

“At least I don’t need to sit around the dead to be content, unlike some people.”

He knew he wasn’t being fair in the least when Sherlock actually appeared hurt. Then it was gone, the mask firmly in place.

Before either of them could continue, a loud wail interrupted from the other room.

Phillip let his arms fall to his side, sucking in a sharp breath. Sherlock’s brows furrowed—in fury, in disappointment, it didn’t matter—but he made no move to vacate the flat. Phillip didn’t stay long enough to find out.

He pulled Lily into his arms, checked for any injuries, and then smelled her diaper. He flinched away from the stench and began the process of changing her, praying that she wasn’t going to be any trouble.

As he began patting her gently dry, his phone chimed. He almost ignored it when he realised that the tone was the one that he’d set for Sherlock. He held his daughter’s wiggling feet with one hand and with the other he pulled out his phone. The display lit up with Sherlock’s name.

He swiped his passcode and read the text.

_I seem to have a knack for upsetting you without even trying. SH_

Reflecting on the sheer ridiculousness of sending texts when they were just a room away, Phillip was about to answer by charging into the other room—when he reconsidered. It occurred to him that this method of communication, while tiresome and far more trouble than it was worth, this was Sherlock’s domain. He _lived_ to text.

 _I least we can’t kill each other this way_ , he mused. One finger tapped on the text box. He considered a few varying responses of bullshit before deciding ultimately on the truth.

_You don’t really have to try very hard. Are we really texting right now? You know I’m in the other room. You could probably shout and I’d hear you._

He shoved the phone into his pocket and finished changing Lily. His heart was racing; somehow the waiting was worse when receiving texts, despite the assurance presence of solitude. It was particularly frightening not being able to see Sherlock and guess what he was thinking.

When he didn’t receive a response for nearly a whole minute, he was again tempted to just go into the living room. Phillip’s fingers drummed nervously on his thigh.

Lily was happily chewing on his finger when his phone chimed. The sound reverberated through the small room, reminding him just how loudly it had echoed. Sherlock had to have heard it.

 _Nevertheless, I’m sorry_. _SH_

It chimed again as he tried to put it on silent.

_I think it’s important that I also mention I do realise that I might have overstepped boundaries in my assumptions about your time. SH_

Boundaries: there was a word he’d never before associated with Sherlock Holmes. He was an alpha; boundaries were pushed and pulled to fit the alpha mold. It made Phillip feel marginally better that Sherlock could acknowledge why he was sorry. It _also_ made him feel a bit like an arse.

_Look, I get it. I get that that’s just how you are. You live to make people uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. Let’s just forget it happened._

He let his hands fall to his side. Sherlock was beginning to disturb him with his more polite gestures. When had he start becoming a decent human being?

A knock on the doorframe knocked him out of his thoughts. He picked up Lily first and then turned, his expression wary.

Sherlock leaned on the door, looking more contrite than he had any more right to.

“Will you come?”

Phillip sighed. “Fine. I hope it’ll be worth the trip. I’ll find a babysitter; John really isn’t someone I know very well.”

Sherlock beamed. It seemed as though nothing could deter him now.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed. “It’s a date.”

While Phillip remained in a frozen state of shock, Sherlock turned and started rattling on about the necessity of practice and something else that went completely over his head.

 _He didn’t mean that. Sherlock doesn’t do dates: he does colloquialisms and insults._ Phillip looked down at Lily, as if she might be able to clear the air. _Right?_  


	9. Chapter 9

Phillip gazed at the contents of his closet with a particular loathing. The last time that Phillip considered his outfit with more care than a half-hearted “it’ll do,” was when he was working with the Met. He'd wasted half an hour already.

His fingers brushed along the edges of his nicest sweater, and then he recoiled as if burned.

 _It’s not a date_ , Phillip reminded himself. He pulled out the nice, richly coloured fabric and rubbed his fingers along the seams. It was soft and warm; he’d been particularly fond of wearing it before Lily had grown too large to be hidden underneath the fold. He could probably pull it off.

The quiet chime of his phone reminded him that he was going to see _dead bodies_ and it definitely _wasn’t_ a date. The coat was returned to the hanger. 

Phillip picked up his phone. A look at his alerts revealed that Sherlock had texted him more than once and he had a missed call from his sister.

He couldn’t wrap his brain around the thought of talking to her. He swiped the alert off of the screen.

 _Will be late,_ the text read, followed by Sherlock’s initials. The one that came immediately after simply said: _Case_.

The final text that was dated ten minutes later made his heart jump.

_I am looking forward to seeing you examining a cadaver. SH_

Phillip debated with himself for a few seconds before deciding to respond with a simple ‘ _Me_ , _too’._ It was unbelievable that a simple line of text could leave him feeling giddy with affection. He made a show of tossing his phone onto the bed so that he could hopefully focus and decide on an outfit.

The moment he stepped into the tube station, Phillip regretted his choice of the turtleneck and wished he’d just taken a cab. A few heads turned to look at him; some of them were alphas, and they weren’t subtle about it. He’d never been on the receiving end of those looks before, but his hormones were fucked up from pregnancy. He wondered if he smelled somewhat like an omega now.

Phillip crouched in the nearest seat, doing his best to keep his head down. 

Feeling pathetic, he tugged at his turtleneck. At the time the way it hugged his throat and accentuated his figure had seemed pleasing; now he wanted nothing more than not to be seen. He felt exposed like this; it had been some time since he’d been in this type of public setting. It was crowded and noisy and nothing like shopping for groceries a few blocks from his flat. Paranoia began to itch at the back of his mind _._

The oppressive air around thickened, and it wasn’t until he rushed off at his stop that he was able to breathe.

For once, Phillip was glad that Sherlock was running late. Bart’s offered a solitude that eased tension that he hadn’t realised had been building until he was in a familiar setting. It wasn’t anything like what he’d been used to with Greg, but rather closer to his days in uni. He settled into one of the steel stools and began to tinker with one of the instruments, his heart growing less heavy with tick of the quiet clock.

It turned out that by “running late”, Sherlock meant he would be _hours_ late. Phillip, who had showed up fairly early to their four o’clock meeting, busied himself for over an hour before he even received a text from Sherlock signifying that he was running later than expected.

When phone games no longer satisfied his boredom, Phillip stood, and was about to leave the room to explore the building a little when Molly walked in.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, blinking rapidly. “You’re still here? Alone, I mean? Did he—did Sherlock not show?”

Phillip tugged at the edge of his shirt. He should have left instead of waiting like a lovesick fool. “Still here, yes. Unlike him, I have manners.” He managed to find a smile, one that she warily returned. “I’ve been staring mindlessly at microscope and playing word games. I hope you don’t mind me touching things.”

“It’s fine,” Molly said. She gave him a wry look. “I’m used to it, if you can imagine. Do you mind if I sit?”

He gestured to an empty chair. “Be my guest.” He paused. “Molly, right? We’ve met once or twice. I remember.”

“Yes. Sherlock told me your name is Anderson?”

“Phillip Anderson. It’s nice to see you.” He shook her hand. It was soft and warm.

“To you as well, Phillip.” Molly let her hand fall and smiled briefly before fiddling with the microscope that Phillip had been using, returning it absentmindedly to its original settings. It was uncomfortably quiet until she broke the silence.

“I know what people used to say about me, all those years ago. With Sherlock, I mean.”

Phillip thought she meant to admonish him, but then she continued, her eyes flicking to him with a look that he recognized: sympathy.

“I never cared, you know. He was—he’s brilliant. Charming, when he wants to be. I know what it’s like to wait for him. It’s—it took him a very long time to start treating me like, like more than a lackey that knew what he liked to drink.”

Phillip didn’t know what to say. His hands shook. He put them in his lap.

“Sherlock isn’t your average alpha,” she continued, her fingers curling carefully over the instrument. She didn’t bother to look through the lens. “He never cared about biology; he never cared about finding the right omega, or forming bonds. I used to think something was a bit, well, wrong,” she sounded ashamed, “but then I learned how brilliant he was. He could--just _look_ into other people’s minds before I could even register their scent.”

“He would see the world before he sees himself. I don’t think a lot of people know what’s behind the face he puts on for all of us. But,” she paused to swallow and cast a quick glance at Phillip. “His work always came first. Always. Before relationships, before family. I—I know that’s probably what you know of him, but what I mean to say is that he—he’s different.”

Then she shook her hands free of the microscope and brushed them along her blouse. “It’s different with you. I think. He likes you,” she blurted, cheeks coloring. “The way he talks about you, I don’t even know if he realizes, to be quite frank. He’s…” She fidgeted. “If I’m really off my mark, I‘m _so_ sorry.”

Phillip let out the breath he’d been holding. “He talks about me?” He swallowed through a dry mouth, then: “Am I that obvious?”

“No!” She all but shouted. “Sorry, it’s just that you looked so sad and I—I recognize that look. I just thought you might want company. I don’t really know what I was thinking.”

Molly was an omega, clear as day. She smelled sweet even to him. He laid his hand over hers briefly. This time his smile was more genuine. “No, you’re—“ he laughed. “You’re right. Thank you, Molly, for telling me. Now, you mentioned he talks about me. What exactly does he say?”

 

* * *

Sherlock came barreling into the lab at a speed that almost caused Phillip to fall out of his stool. Molly had left twenty minutes ago and he was about to give up himself, thoroughly disgusted to have waited _two hours_ for the man.

“Sherlock—“ he hissed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock blurted at the same time. “Forgive me.”

Phillip blinked, taken aback. Now that he had the chance to observe him, he noted that Sherlock was all but steaming, his curls in a mess and his face shining with sweat. He must have sprinted for at least a few blocks. Phillip caught a whiff of his scent as he deposited his coat on the stool across from him and he smelled…well, it was the opposite of bad.

“You…ran all the way here?”

“Faster than the tube,” he confirmed, plopping down onto the stool. “I know my way around.”

“If it was so fast, what took you so long?” He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. “I was about to leave before you finally showed up.”

Sherlock beamed. “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have much else to do. Plus, it’s not bad to relax without a sixth month old constantly needing my attention,” he lied. His arms felt empty without her.

“Of course.” Sherlock smirked like he knew Phillip was lying, but he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Would you like to get started? I’m sure you’ve been itching to see what body I’ve procured.”

“Hold on.” He glared. “First, tell me what took you so long! I deserve that bloody explanation.”

“Ah.” He sounded abashed. “A case, as I told you. It was ultimately a waste of time. Boring.”

“Then why did it take you so long?”

“I needed a favour.” Sherlock refused to meet his eyes, busying himself with the microscope in front of him. “From someone who lives to see me struggle.”

When prompted, he would say no more, so Phillip dropped it and they moved into the morgue where the bodies awaited them. Molly was meant to help them, but she’d left early. Phillip was more nervous than he expected to be as Sherlock snapped a pair of gloves over his hands. Very long, elegant hands.

“Do they let you do this often? Messing with bodies that don’t belong to an investigation?” The cold rubber felt too unfamiliar to Phillip. Panic surged inside him. The motions involved that had once been second nature escaped him as Sherlock handed him a surgical tool. He stared at the scalpel before gently resting it on the corpse’s torso.

The first incision was messy; his hands were shaking.

 _He likes you,_ Molly’s voice echoed.

“No, I don’t.”

He nearly had a heart attack before he realised Sherlock was answering his previous inquiry. “Ah,” he said. The second stroke was easier than the first. If Sherlock noticed his internal struggle he didn’t comment, hovering impatiently behind him.

“So when you said there was an opening, you really meant no one would notice us poking around?” It was so _Sherlock_ that he couldn’t help but smile.

“Precisely.” Sherlock stepped in closer behind him. Phillip was intensely aware of the hand that was resting hear his right hip. He focused on remaining very still.

“What can you see?” Sherlock murmured. Phillip was focused on the body in front of him, but he almost made an errant incision when Sherlock’s scent washed over him. Betas weren’t as scent sensitive as omegas and alphas, but he could smell Sherlock keenly. It wasn’t welcome while he was trying to concentrate on using a knife correctly.

“Back off a bit and I’ll have the room to tell you,” Phillip said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat and peeled back the skin. Sherlock made a noise behind him and completely ignored his request by leaning in for a closer look.

“Well?”

“He…has a couple of organs missing.” Phillip’s brain started to work again and he reached in to take a look at his lungs. “From what it looks like…organ donor? No; there's evidence of foul play.”

“Perhaps. Molly informed me there might be something interesting about this one.”

They were quiet as Phillip carefully removed the organs that were in his way into tubs. He hadn’t buried his hands in a body in years, but something about Sherlock’s quiet confidence made him feel more competent than he had any right to be.

Just when he was getting comfortable, Phillip’s fingers clumsily slipped and a lung nearly flew out of his hand. Sherlock steadied him by his elbow, his left hand curling around Phillip's fingers as he helped rescue the organ. His fingers were long and warm, sliding over the latex almost soothingly before he released him and moved to the other side of the table. A hot flush began to spread across Phillip’s face.

When looked up, but Sherlock’s eyes were firmly rooted to the cadaver. Phillip returned to his task, his own curiosity mounting when he reached the stomach.

“Interesting,” he muttered. On closer inspection he could see stomach was badly burned. He opened up the throat and was surprised to see that it was the same situation along the lining.

“It looks like he died of asphyxiation,” he said quietly. Sherlock looked at him with interest. “Probably. I think. If you look at it more accurately it looks like death came from asphyxia to the corrosion of the larynx.” He gestured with his fingers, falling into the motions similar to when he used to teach the interns. “Along here, see? It could also be congestion of the lungs when he breathed in his own dead material; I’d have to take a look.”

He risked meeting Sherlock’s eyes and almost dropped his instruments. Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide, his mouth curling into a smile that was too close to being sexy.

 _You are_ not _getting turned on over a dead body._

“Probably potassium hydroxide, if I had to guess," he continued, looking down. "It’s used to dispose of bodies sometimes, but it looks like this man ingested it somehow. Maybe he was poisoned.”

“He was a banker,” said Sherlock, moving over to his side. He sounded inordinately pleased. “Bankers aren’t well liked by people; he could have had a multitude of enemies.” He met Phillip’s eyes and grinned. “If he was murdered, that is.”

“You’d better not tell me we’re interfering with an ongoing investigation,” he said carefully.

Sherlock waved away his concern. “Nothing as interesting. I was told this case was solved when they found the body.”

Phillip’s shoulder sagged with relief. “Ah. Well since my hands are already dirty. Shall we?” He echoed Sherlock’s grin and finished examining the corpse, but nothing else presented itself.

It was actually a little disappointing. Sherlock took delight in pointing out aspects of his life that were of interest, including the fact that he was involved in a polyandrous marriage.

Phillip did his best to keep up, documenting what he saw out loud, gaining confidence with every passing minute. Once there was nothing left to see, he had no choice but to sew him together again. He’d never been so reluctant to finish messing around in a dead body before.

Sherlock was vibrating with tension when Phillip finally finished. He tore off his gloves and threw them in the nearby bin. The equipment was cleaned and laid to rest back in its rightful place disposed of them, and Phillip disposed of his own gloves. All that was left was to go home.

Conversation was stinted, but not uncomfortable as they made their way outside of Bart’s. Phillip was surprised to meet the darkened sky; it felt like they’d been there for less than an hour.

“So,” said Phillip, keeping his eyes locked on the moon. “What was that supposed to prove? It couldn’t have all been for me: you seem very pleased with yourself.”

“The point was that you don’t belong in that teaching job of yours.” Before he could feel stung, Sherlock continued: “I was wrong when I told you that you should take Mycroft's offer. It’s clear that you deserve your job back.”

Phillip turned to look at him so quickly he felt whiplash. “What? You mean with the Met? I lost that job years ago. What will one dead body prove?”

“Oh please. You were a natural in there!” Sherlock turned to him, gesturing passionately. “What difference are you making droning to incompetent children? Don’t you miss doing work that _mattered_?”

Old feelings burned through his chest, leaving Phillip feeling dizzy and a little breathless. “I was fired for a good reason, Sherlock. You can’t seriously expect them to take me back!”

“Of course I can,” he spat. “Once we prove that you’re just as essential as you were before, you can get back into casework, and we can work together.”

“If you remember correctly, the last time we worked together, it didn’t turn out so well for either of us,” he snapped back. “And what makes you think I want my old job? Maybe I’m perfectly content teaching.” It sounded like a lie to his own ears. “I have an income and I have Lily.”

Sherlock looked thoroughly unimpressed. “It’s written all over your face. I believe that what Sally remarked once applies here: you ‘get off’ on it. We could work together again; I'm certain you wouldn't cast my talents aside as you once did. With our combined skills, Lestrade and the rest of them would struggle to keep up.”

The fact that he’d noticed his arousal made Phillip’s cheeks burn. "That’s not—“ _true_ , he wanted to say, but admitting that would be admitting that something else had evoked such a reaction. “I already talked to Greg. That ship sailed years ago.”

The thought of working with him in that capacity was tempting, but improbable.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said suddenly, sounding slightly smug.

“What does your brother have to do with any of this?”

“More than you would know. I just need an answer, Phillip.” His voice was uncharacteristically serious.

He was silent, struggling to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock didn’t push him, waiting. Phillip heavily resisted the urge to deny it. He had enjoyed doing work that mattered. He loved the space he used to fill, along with Sally and Greg and the people that he’d spent years around. There was nothing that could compare to what it was like to be a part of something that felt like he belonged.

When he finally muttered a small “yes” through dry lips, Sherlock’s glee couldn’t dampen the bitter taste on his tongue.

“Speaking of your brother…” Phillip swallowed. "I still haven't replied—or spoken to him about his offers." 

Sherlock's expression was tight. He didn’t look happy, his lips pressed thinly. “As we said before, talent rarely escapes his notice. I—don't want you to work with him.”

Phillip tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach at being praised by Sherlock like it was nothing special. Like it was so _obvious_. He fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot.

_The way he talks about you…he likes you._

“Sherlock,” he blurted. He had to ask. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”

However, Sherlock had moved to the edge of the road to hail a cab, and with it Phillip’s confidence. When Sherlock returned, cheeks flush and eyes sparkling, Phillip didn’t say another word until they were at his flat.

It was hard to imagine that he could put Lily out of his mind for even a second, but as they rolled up to his flat, it occurred to Phillip that the ache inside of him had eased. It wasn’t gone, by any means, but the void that was filled by her smile had shrunk, leaving room for a rather striking detective.

 _God help me_ , he thought as he slipped out of the cab. Sherlock waved off his attempts to pay and told him to keep his phone close.

“Why?” he asked, more curious than anything.

In response, Sherlock closed the door in his face.

“Alphas,” Phillip muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: realized a little bit of the convo contradicted something in a previous chapter and I fixed it


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the UST. Bit of possessive Sherlock here.

After the initial excitement surrounding his visit to the morgue with Sherlock, the following week proved retrospectively uneventful.

Phillip’s sixth month of paternity leave was just about to conclude, leaving him with few options; he hadn’t had the time even think about searching for another job had he wanted to stop being a professor, which left him with no choice but to _make_ a choice. His options included either returning to his work at the school, accepting Mycroft’s ostentatious offer, or hope Sherlock came through with whatever he was scheming.

His future had never seemed open-ended when he had first been attempting to find a job after being plastered by his superiors. For this Phillip was thankful, but he did not seek out any particular option with any sure amount of confidence. Teaching had filled him with a sense of accomplishment, but he lacked the passion involved to become a truly dedicated instructor. His job with the met marked his first ‘real’ forensics job, one that he'd cared deeply about.

Thinking about it made him smile in remembrance. Nothing could compare to the excitement of his first week out at a crime scene, even if he’d looked like a loon grinning all over the place.

He’d felt a sense of belonging working with his team. He was provided with a multitude of possibilities to get his hands dirty with exciting real world experience. It was part of the reason he had hated Sherlock so viciously. The job that he knew, that he had worked _hard_ to acquire, had been encompassed by an emaciated drug addict that could barely see over the size of his own ego.

However, he no longer minded his company anymore. He might tentatively refer to it as refreshing.

 _God, I’m pathetic_.

He told Greg as much the next time he saw him, which was not long after his “date” with Sherlock.

“You’ve really lost it, haven’t you?” Greg teased, grinning over his cup of tea. “For Sherlock, I mean. Finally warming up to him, huh?”

“Ugh,” Phillip groaned. “I’ve enough issues without you adding to it. Can we skip you being all _smug_ about it? I just want to know whether or not you think it’s possible that I…” he hesitated to utter the words, lest it cause reality to come crashing down on all his hope. “It could be bollocks but maybe—maybe I could come back.”

Greg was silent for an uncomfortably long period of time. “Anything’s possible, I s’pose,” he said at length. “With what I’ve seen people do, I believe it. I don’t want to speculate, because Sherlock is good, but I don’t know that he’s _that_ good. Our reputation is still under heavy scrutiny since he's come back, and the papers like to pick at every little detail they can find.”

Phillip swallowed. “I thought you said you weren’t going to speculate.”

“Right.” Greg flashed him a smile that he didn’t feel. “You’re right, 'course. Let’s just drop, shall we? We never hire around Christmastime anyway. Now about this date of yours…”

“It wasn’t—“ he sighed, silently relieved at the change in subject. “Sherlock says a lot of things he doesn't mean.” He smiled wryly. “I don’t know what it was. Molly had me convinced for a minute there, but…she was probably wrong. Sherlock vocabulary would includearson before romance.”

Greg leaned back, thoughtful. "And yet we're here." Lily sat propped up against Phillip's chest, babbling as she waved her hand at Greg. He smiled widely at her and wiggled his fingers.

“He just wants my help now that we’re friends and he won’t have to struggle with forensic techs anymore,” Phillip protested. Lily snatched his fingers when they were within reach and tried to fit his hand in her mouth. 

When his phone chimed Phillip couldn’t pick it up fast enough.

“Uh huh,” Greg drawled. “Tell me that isn’t Sherlock and I’ll believe you.”

“Just because he texts me doesn’t mean— he texts you and John both!”

“Not regularly,” Greg pointed out. “We certainly down have erotic experiences over dead bodies.”

“For god’s—I shouldn’t have said a fucking word about it.” He unlocked his phone and opened Sherlock’s text. “It was not _erotic_.”

Sherlock hadn’t contacted him since they parted days before, leaving Phillip leaving a little bereft of regular company. Sherlock was the one to initiate their conversations, so he wasn’t certain it would be welcome.

 _Quit your job_ , the text read.

It was so ridiculously far from what he expected that Phillip couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Another text popped onto the screen.

_What are you doing for Christmas? John is having a “Christmas party”. You should come. SH_

“I can’t believe him.” He felt a myriad of conflicting emotions. “He invited me to the Christmas party that you told me about and in the same breath said to quit my job.” 

“He’s your problem now, mate," Greg said, failing to hide his smirk. "You still believe he doesn’t fancy the pants off you? He invited you to John’s Christmas party; he hates Christmas!”

“I gave birth to his daughter! It’s only natural he’d want to see us.”

"Denial is not just a river in Egypt," Greg quipped.

"Har har, Greg." When Phillip looked down, another text had appeared.

 _I want you to come_ , it read. Phillip’s blood pounded in his ears. “Besides, I don’t even have a gift in mind. What would he want? Eyeballs?”

The humour was not lost on Greg. Smiling, he stood to put his cup in the sink. “You have a couple of weeks to find out,” he reminded him. “He’s never been the gifting type. I’m going to focus my efforts on Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and the Watsons’ baby. Maybe this year I'll have another iconic video that I can photoshop the hell out of.”

“Yeah.” Phillip was staring at the text, completely oblivious to what Greg was saying. His stomach did flip-flops every time he read the words.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Greg teased. “Speaking of, I should probably get back to work anyway; Sherlock hasn’t been around much so we’re more pressed at this time of year. I haven’t been able to catch his attention with any cases as of late.”

Phillip looked up, shoving his mobile into his pocket. “No good murders?”

“Actually, some were pretty interesting. We had one that involved arson _and_ poison, but he didn’t even bite. Funny that.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Just said he was busy and left it at that.”

Phillip hummed, brain working a mile a minute. Did this have anything to do with that favour? “What will you ever do without him?”

“Oi, we solve cases on our own! Not as fast, yeah, but the job gets done. The new techs have caught on by now and it runs much smoother than before.”

It served to remind him of his biggest dilemma. “Then I guess you don’t need me.” He sighed. Greg scowled, bringing him and Lily in for a tight hug. Greg’s scent was comforting; Phillip allowed himself to take one deep lungful before he pulled away.

“We still miss you,” Greg said firmly. “You _can_ visit, you know. Even if it doesn’t work out with—yeah. You aren’t banned from the station.”

“Yeah, I know.” Phillip ran fingers through his hair. He needed to cut it before he started looking like one of Sherlock’s helpers. “But I haven’t been back since getting fired. I don’t even know if—I don't know. It's stupid.”

“Only one way to find out,” Greg urged. “Come on by. Sally wouldn’t mind seeing you. I know the two of you are still thick as thieves. Maybe bring Lily.”

“Right.” Phillip scoffed. “I’m sure the people there would love to see me with a baby, stinking of Sherlock. He comes—used to come here almost every other day.”

“I wouldn’t say you _stink_ like him,” Greg said carefully. “Just one hour. We’ll have lunch and then you never have to come by again.”

Phillip breathed through his nose, trying to piece together his confidence. The thought of facing all of those people made his chest feel tight. Then he thought of Sherlock, of the possibilities between them and the tension eased.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll drop by. Just—don’t expect much.”

“Great!” Greg hugged them both one more time, plopping a kiss on top of Lily’s head before he grabbed his coat. “Text if you need anything.”

“Right,” said Phillip. “I’ll do that.”

When Greg left, Phillip busied himself with tasks around the flat. He cleaned the dishes, wiped down the appliances, and took a bath with Lily, killing two birds with one stone. He was reminded that he needed to trim his beard when Lily as able to grab onto short tufts and _pull_.

“Little mongrel,” he murmured, pulling her chubby fists safely away from his face.

After dressing her in one of her softest onesies, and with nothing better to do, Phillip pulled out his laptop and began to compose an email to Mycroft Holmes.

He hesitated at the subject line. It wasn’t that he didn’t _trust_ Sherlock to pull through; rather, he suspected that he could have easily forgotten about Phillip and moved onto the newest mystery that was keeping him occupied.

He jumped when his phone buzzed. It was from Greg, reminding him to stop by followed by a few emojis. Phillip replied to him with a smiley face and remembered that he hadn’t replied to Sherlock yet.

 _I wouldn’t know what to bring,_ he typed in response to the Christmas invite.

By the time he set his phone down, there was another reply.

_Bring Lillian. Gifts are not required. SH_

_I wouldn’t to be rude_. Phillip hesitated before adding, _What do you want for Christmas?_

_No hats. Or anything with ‘ears’. SH_

Phillip would have to remember to ask about that later. He set his phone down so he could focus, but the litany of texts that Sherlock sent were a sufficient distraction.

_I don’t need anything for this ridiculous holiday, save for a good case. SH_

_I doubt you could fulfill that requirement short of being a serial killer. SH_

He smiled. Phillip got little done that evening.

* * *

 The station looked virtually the same since the last time he’d seen it. The handle that had begun to hang off of the door had been replaced by something more high tech, clearly requiring clearance during non-public hours. The chair in the front desk had been replaced and most of the offices had brand new computers.

Phillip felt distinctly out of place as he carefully manhandled the door open, Lily dozing in her pram. His arm ached from his efforts to remain careful, but he wasn’t about to whip out his 'baby sack' (as Greg had grown fond of calling it). It was bad enough that he carried a tote bag full of emergency supplies.

“Hi,” he croaked to the person manning the desk, gathering the attention of the few people speaking around them. He tried again after clearing his throat, presenting his name and the fact that Greg had invited him.

“Oh,” said the receptionist, a middle-aged omega. His scent was undetectable from this distance. “I remember you. Anderson, yes?” His eyes strayed the baby and his nose twitched like he smelled something straight from the skip behind the building.

To his credit, he didn’t say a word, just directed him to Greg’s new office.

“Things have changed a bit,” he informed Phillip. His eyes slid back to Lily before Phillip caught his eye and he looked down at his keyboard. “You look well.”

Phillip swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in his throat and moved past him to find Greg. He weaved around the desks, garnering curious looks and double takes from those that were close enough to smell him. By the time he was nearing Greg’s office, he wished he’d had the forethought to wear some cologne or mask his scent.

Before he could open the door, he found himself hauled away and into someone’s open embrace.

“Phillip, you _berk_ ,” said Sally, holding him tightly as she could. “So you finally decide to show your face again the week before Christmas? I’m about to go on holiday, you know.” She punched his arm.

“Sally, it’s good to see you,” Phillip said, finding that he meant it. “Greg invited me back.” As if he needed a reason to stop by. “I know I should have visited, but—well.”

Sally saved him from answering by hauling them into Greg’s office, as strong and proud as ever.

“How long were you going to try and keep him from me?” she demanded, facing Greg with hands on her hips.

Greg put down the photos he had been examining and smiled at the trio. “As if I could keep anything from you. It’s not my fault he hates us now.”

“ _He_ is here, thank you,” Phillip piped in. “Nobody has been keeping me from anyone. I’m just a rubbish friend.”

“Finally somebody says it,” Sally drawled, then dropped down to Lily's level. “She gets cuter every time I see her. May I hold her?” Phillip helped Lily out of the straps and handed her over to Sally. She was quiet as Sally took her into her arms, waving her arms in her general vicinity. She sniffed curiously.

“Has anyone ever said that children are like dogs?” she said. “They just sniff everything that passes their nose or stuffs it into their little gobs.”

Greg burst into laughter. "She is not a dog!" Phillip exclaimed, leaning against Greg's desk. "Scent marking is a natural way for her to familiarize herself with people, thank you." 

His protests lasted until Sally conceded, her shoulders stiff from laughter. Standing there, surrounded by his friends warmed Phillip's chest. The trials of his final years had ripped the joy out of his life here, but it was a testament to how much he’d missed it that he felt about two steps from begging Greg to let him back on the force.

At one point, Greg left to fetch them lunch from the nearby deli and Phillip was thankful that he’d had the forethought to bring a full bottle for Lily. He preferred to do it naturally, but he certainly wasn’t about to expose himself to the whole building.

“So,” she said, watching his daughter take the plastic nipple into her mouth. She moved to stand next to him and take in a whiff. “You absolutely reek of Sherlock, have I told you that yet?”

He refused to rise to the bait and shrugged. “We’re friends.”

“Uh huh. Always knew you had a little bit of freak in there.”

He bit his lip to keep himself from reacting in a way that he would regret. “Don’t call him that. He’s not—he doesn’t deserve that.” She looked a little surprised, mouth twisting into a frown, and nodded.

“I never meant it to be more than a joke. It evolved and…” she sighed, scrubbed a hand through her hair. It snagged and she scowled. “We’ve moved past that. Mostly. I don’t talk to him if I don’t have to, he doesn’t talk to me.”

“Anything is an improvement,” he muttered. Lily blinked up at him and nearly pulled the bottle out of his fingers as if to redirect his attention.

He smiled at her, earning a fist in his growing beard.

“You really need to trim that,” Sally said. “Or do you like a bit of stubble burn, eh?”

“Sally—“ he hissed, embarrassed. “I just haven’t got around to it. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to keep it on. I can’t stand how it itches.”

“It looks a bit like pubic hair. I always wanted to tell you, but I never said anything before because, well, most men would probably get offended by that.”

"Count me among that category.” He laughed. “It just needs a trim." When Sally leaned towards him and began rubbing her palm against the grain, he jerked away. It tingled uncomfortably. “Stop touching it—”

Before he could properly push her away, the door slammed open, almost causing him to fall forward.

“Lestrade, I need—Oh.” Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him. Phillip was perched on Greg’s desk with Lily in his arms, still trying to get out of Sally’s reach without upsetting her. Sally's hand was frozen against his cheek.

If Sally was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it. She pulled her hand away and rubbed it against her thigh, eyeing their intruder with barely disguised distaste.

“Donovan,” Sherlock said, his voice curt. He had gone ramrod straight, his nostrils flaring.

Lily for her part had burst into tears, pushing the bottle away from her mouth in a fit of rage.

“Holmes,” she replied, crossing her arms.

“Sherlock!” Phillip hissed. He was just staring at Phillip. “Do you always have to barge in like that? Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

Sherlock snapped out of his daze and in three strides he was standing in front of Phillip. “Why are you in Lestrade’s office?” he asked, sounding suspicious. He kept darting glances at Donovan, his expression darkening with every passing second.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Phillip didn’t protest as Lily was taken from him with a practiced ease that would have bothered him had it been anyone else. Sherlock positioned her against the crook of his neck, something that always seemed to do the trick. "I thought you were,” Phillip tried not to sound bitter, “ _busy_.”

“I want a case,” Sherlock said smoothly. When Lily’s tears had been reduced to sniffles, Sherlock pulled her back and kissed the top of her head. As she reached upward he caught her chubby fingers in his palm and kissed the knuckles soundly. It was the most affection he displayed since Phillip had known him. His heart leapt in his throat.

“Right. Well, he went to fetch lunch,” Phillip said, meaning _we’re busy, too_ at the same time Sherlock said, “You haven’t been here since you were fired. What made you come back?”

Sally sighed explosively. "I can't believe him," she muttered, too quietly for Sherlock to hear. Hopefully.

Phillip worked his jaw until he could formulate a response. “No, I haven’t. It—it wasn’t the right time.”

“Hmm. Have you quit your job yet?” he prompted.

“No, and I don’t plan on it unless I absolutely have to.” He rolled his eyes. “Getting my job is next to impossible. Whatever you're plotting, I hope it works.”

Sherlock flashed him a manic smile and adjusted Lily so she fit in the crook of his arm. “It will, I assure you.” He softened so considerably when he gazed at Lily that Phillip felt his hope sink into the pit of his stomach. Sherlock loved _Lily_. He had to remember that when everyone around him was intent on convincing him that Sherlock Holmes would ever develop feelings for him.

“If you’re quite finished,” he ground out, suddenly angry, mostly at himself. “I still need to feed her. You can go; I don’t think you’re going to get that case. Greg hasn’t had anything interesting for a while.”

Sherlock blinked as Phillip reached for Lily. He shifted away, grabbing the bottle with a speed that left Phillip’s empty fist clenching thin air.

“I’m perfectly capable of feeding her and I haven’t seen my daughter in weeks.”

Bloody Holmes. Phillip breathed harshly through his nose and plopped irritably into the nearest chair, trying not to hate himself for being jealous of his own daughter. 

“You could have come by at any point to see her, you know,” Phillip pointed out. He immediately regretted it when Sherlock’s eyes snapped to his.

“You’re angry that I didn't,” Sherlock stated.

“I’m not angry,” Phillip replied too quickly. _Shit_.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “No. You’re jealous,” he said slowly. _Curiously_. “You’ve never taken issue with me holding Lillian before.”

Phillip sank further into the chair. _I’m pathetic._ He then looked at Sally, trying to communicate telepathically. _Not. A. Word._

Ignoring his telepathic message she abruptly stood, nearly knocking over Greg’s chair. “Oka-ay. This is fun, but I’m going to the loo so you two can work out…whatever this is.” She slid past Phillip and Sherlock, who watched her leave with a loathing that Phillip didn’t think was warranted.

“I thought you two no longer hated each other,” he ventured in a weak attempt to change the subject.

“I don’t hate her,” he said, at odds with how much he relaxed once she was out of the room. Phillip lacked any response and looked at Lily. Sherlock followed his gaze, only just remembering to pull the bottle away so she wouldn’t choke from drinking too fast.

When Phillip looked up at Sherlock, he was approaching him in that intense, single-minded way of his. Phillip straightened as Sherlock bent down in a crouch, delivering Lily into Phillip’s waiting arms.

“Oh.” Their hands brushed, sending sparks up his forearms. “Sherlock, you really didn’t have to. Look, forget me being angry, I’ve just been having a difficult time with the end of my leave coming up. Plus, there’s you brother—“

Sherlock _growled_ , a reaction so unexpected that they both appeared surprised. Sherlock had the decency to look embarrassed. “Don’t go to him. You’d hate working for him.”

“Maybe we really hit it off,” he lied, hiding a smile. “At least he’s polite. You spent a good chunk of your life together; he can’t be the bond villain you make him out to be.”

Sherlock blinked as the reference flew over his head. “Oh, I could say much worse. If it had been my choice I would have preferred if we hadn’t been conceived in the same household. It would certainly save me a lot of trouble.”

“You don’t mean that,” Phillip said, somehow knowing it was true. Sherlock, in his own way, loved his brother. Probably. “I don’t get along my with siblings, but I don’t regret them. Does this have to do with that favour?”

Sherlock looked irritated that he had pinpointed the object of his frustrations, but he didn't deny it. “He’s _insufferable_ when I need his help!” Sherlock exploded. “He will milk this for all its worth, wasting my time doing boring, _tedious_ work for ages.”

“Must be important,” Phillip said, curious despite himself.

“It is,” said Sherlock.

As Sherlock’s eyes bore into his, Phillip realized how close they had become. This close, he could see the few freckles that dotted Sherlock's cheeks. His eyes were bright. Phillip was frozen, his face slowly flushing an embarrassing red. He leaned back slightly when Sherlock leaned forward a few more scant, dangerous inches, and closed his eyes. _God_. His heart was pounding. He felt the brush of Sherlock's knuckles along the same place that Sally had rubbed his beard just minutes ago. The touch was brief, but left a trail of warmth that traveled down and settled in pit Phillip's stomach.

Sherlock remained crouched, so his scent was just perceptible to Phillip’s nose. He longed to lean forward and shove his nose into Sherlock’s neck, friendship be damned. He might have done it, had it not been for Lily weighing down his arms.

“You smell like her,” Sherlock said, his voice wavering on the cusp of a growl. He sounded _angry_. Phillip bit the inside of his cheek and opened his eyes.

“Who—“

With an abruptness that was startling, Sherlock stood; his face flushed and without another word he marched out the door, leaving Phillip flabbergasted and still staring by the time both Greg and Sally returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably only a couple more chapters and then this monster will finally be finished!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while....yeah. Not sure if anyone is still out there, but I know a few of you asked me if I was going to continue, and I am! I still love this sailboat dearly, and I hate leaving things unfinished. Hope you enjoy!

After the incident at Greg’s office, Phillip’s left rather quickly, feeling out of sorts after Sherlock disappeared like a gust of wind.

He refused to call it _pining_.

There were only a few days until Christmas, which left him giftless and anxiety-ridden. On the bright side, he had finally worked up the nerve to email Mycroft Holmes. It was mostly a greeting that expressed his interest in learning a little more about the positions that might be offered. As of yet he hadn’t received a single response, but he was well aware that Mycroft was a busy man.

There was just the small issue of John’s Christmas party. Sherlock had invited him, but John’s feelings had yet to be expressed. They were no longer enemies, but they certainly weren’t _friends_. He couldn’t imagine mingling among former colleagues that had once been a source of such hatred, even if John had thanked him for believing in Sherlock.

Phillip was in the middle of filming Lily doing something equally ridiculous and adorable when it occurred to him that he hadn’t even received any sort of time frame. For all his fretting, it could have already happened. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t even go.

As if reading his thoughts, his phone lit up, displaying an alert for Sherlock’s text.

_I neglected to tell you the time of the party. It is Christmas Eve at 5pm. SH_

Phillip’s head swam. He swiped it off the screen and spent the next hour focused his efforts on documenting Lily’s exciting exploits as a six month old.

* * *

The storefronts were garishly decorated in ways that made Phillip want to turn tail and head home. However, he hadn’t done anything remotely productive in the last week (save for take care of his daughter) and he was beginning to feel the itch of boredom.

He thoughtfully bought a pair of deer antlers and a hideous Christmas sweater for Sherlock (he was more or less estimating the size) and the Watson’s baby would receive a generic teddy bear that felt incredibly soft to the touch. To his delight, it said ‘I love you’ when the heart inside its chest was squeezed, therefore making it amusing for children. He almost bought one for Lily, but she liked to beat her toys into submission or chew on them.

A glinting Christmas ornament caught his eye on his way to the register. It was covered in snowflakes and very, very reflective. He wondered what kind of ornaments the Watson’s would prefer, and whether or not they had a tree. Phillip didn’t have a tree—or any sort of decorations around his flat.

His gift was probably something that the Watsons had in the dozens; now that he looked at it, the bear suddenly seemed less thoughtful than he’d initially thought.

 _Don’t_ , he told himself firmly before he could start comparing himself to them. He wasn’t a terrible parent. His situation was simply _different_.

He was a single beta father that pined uselessly over an alpha that, as far as he was concerned, had only developed feelings for his infant and viewed him as a useful tool to further his career.

 _That’s not fair,_ a part of him voiced. Sherlock hadn’t suggested anything short of a partnership that would flourish from their friendship. His own bitterness only served to shove him deeper into the pit of self-loathing.

 _What would I even wear_? He didn’t have anything remotely festive.

He nearly texted Sherlock that he didn’t intend to show up when he thought of the gifts that he had already bought and subsequently Sherlock’s face once he saw them. It cheered him a little, and reminded him that there was one more gift that he could acquire that Sherlock would actually appreciate.

He punched in Greg’s number before he could lose his nerve.

* * *

The moment before stepping up to Sherlock’s door, it occurred Phillip that it was very possible that the party was taking place at the Watson’s and not Sherlock’s.

Horrified at the possibility of his mistake, Phillip weighed the rewards between knocking on the door and turning around and leaving. It was already six, and by the time he found their flat, he would be far past fashionably late.

Decided, he nearly got to the edge of the road when the floor flew open and warm air rushed past him.

“Phillip,” Sherlock said, with such warmth that it made his toes curl.

“Sherlock.” He stepped closer instinctively and Sherlock moved forward, joining him outside in the cold.

“Lillian’s outfit is horridly appropriate,” Sherlock sneered, but it lacked heat. She was secure in Phillip’s arms, dressed for Christmas success in a red onesie decorated with snowflakes.

Phillip’s mouth twitched, resisting the urge to smile. “Very astute observation, detective. Are you going to invite us in, or are we going to do this out in the snow?”

Without another word Sherlock lead them into the foyer, which looked entirely different than Phillip remembered. Christmas lights ran up the banister and there was a small tree in front of Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Festive,” he said, earning an eye roll. Phillip was almost certain that Sherlock’s dislike of the holiday was mostly for show, and secretly enjoyed putting up all the decorations.

At the top of the stairs it became clear that it was only the beginning of the holiday spirit. A large tree was erected by the fireplace and the strings of lights twisting up the base made it glow brightly.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Do you always do this?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “It was John’s idea. Since my return, they decided that a ‘real’ Christmas celebration was deserved.” He said the word celebration in the same way someone might say ‘pile of shite’. “After you.”

The other occupants of the room looked at them as they entered, and Phillip was reminded of just how out of place he was among these people. Greg and Molly were what he would consider friends, but the rest of them could very well still hold his actions against him.

He went stiff when Mary approached him, her gaze considering. This would be her first time seeing him in the flesh. He was prepared for just about anything except the way that she pulled him in for a hug. Phillip froze, his body going impossibly stiff.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!” she said, giving him one final squeeze before pulling away.

He blinked. At some point Lily had been freed from his grasp and now resided in Sherlock’s arms, leaving him feeling bereft.

“It’s—nice. To meet you. Too,” he stammered, heart hammering. Despite the warm greeting, Mary’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes and there was something far more calculating in their depths. He had the distinct feeling that she was more of a threat than even John. 

“Phillip,” John said in greeting, appearing by his wife’s side, their baby in tow. Phillip nodded, still struggling to meet his eyes without feeling afraid.

Greg and Molly were more welcoming when they hugged him. Molly quietly told him that she was happy he’d come and Greg’s hug was very alpha—he slapped Phillip’s back no less than twice and declared to the room that the party had arrived fashionably late. Phillip suspected he’d had a few beers already.

When the focus shifted away from his arrival and back to the festivities, Phillip felt himself slowly relax. He moved closer to the fire where Sherlock had moved to be out of the way, gazing at Lily with unabashed adoration.

“She always seems to doze off faster in your arms,” Phillip said, only a touch bitterly.

“There have been studies conducted on the behavior of children with both parents, but the absence of a bond.”

Sherlock sounded curious. Phillip took a large sip of the glass that Mary had offered him to keep from saying anything incredibly stupid.

 _Idiot_ , he thought as someone tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, the small concession of people had moved closer to the fire and was now cooing over the Watson’s baby.

“This is Isabelle,” John said proudly, his chest puffing. It was so very alpha that Phillip had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock did not make any attempts to do so, and Watson shot him a toothy grin in response.

Phillip took the sleepy Lily from Sherlock to bring her closer to Isabelle for comparison. “No doubt Sherlock told you—at least, I would hope he had. This is Lillian, but I call her Lily.”

“She seems very sweet,” said Molly. She tickled her chin and Lily smiled lazily. When she yawned, there was a lot of ‘ooh’ing and ‘aww’ing.

Sherlock immediately started taking pictures with his phone. Phillip was sure that his face was in some of them, and he was also certain that he was blushing. It was with regret that he thought of his beard, which could have hidden some of his embarrassment had he not shaved it all off.

“She’s very calm,” Mary added, sounding envious. At Phillip’s prompt, she started talking about how Isabelle never wanted to do anything that was for her benefit.

“Getting her to go to sleep at night time is a nightmare,” she whined. “I almost thought about leaving her for a sitter to struggle with, but I couldn’t imagine Christmas without my family.”

Phillip nodded in understanding, when in reality he hadn’t spent a Christmas with family in decades. For some reason, he looked at Sherlock, who inclined his head, a small smile playing at his lips.

“She’s beautiful,” Phillip said. “You’re a very photogenic family.”

“We were actually thinking about sending out Christmas cards,” Mary teased, earning a startled look from John.

“No we weren’t,” he whispered. Mary elbowed him.

Greg looped his arm around Phillip’s shoulders and kissed his cheek, much to his horror.

“This man is a great dad,” he gushed, to Phillip’s great embarrassment.

“Thank you, Greg,” he ground out.

It made parts of Phillip ease to learn that Mary and John were just like any couple; having trouble with their kids and making it work. He shoved off Greg as delicately as he could and found himself sending furtive glances to Sherlock.

He looked unhappy, his fingers curling into fists.

Phillip didn’t have time to ask, because in the next moment Mrs. Hudson pulled him to the side and told the parents holding the babies horror stories from her time as a sitter and a mother.

“Drugs and children don’t mix, dearies. Thank goodness none were drugged, but can you imagine?”

Mary and he shared looks of horror, startling a laugh out of the two of them.

As a few more guests that Phillip didn’t recognize showed up, people began to split up into smaller groups. Mary eventually had to break away to change Isabelle, and John had gone to talk to the other guests. Molly had departed minutes ago and was picking at the food laid out in the kitchen.

“Now’s your chance,” Greg stage whispered. Phillip nearly jumped out of his skin.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He shifted Lily, who was now wide awake and making eyes at anyone that looked her way.

“With Sherlock. There’s mistletoe; it’s Christmas!”

Phillip cast a quick glance at the detective himself, who appeared cautiously relaxed as he spoke to the man that John was introducing to the rest of them. He was indeed standing under mistletoe, but Phillip wasn’t about to try anything as stupid as _kiss_ him. Sherlock turned his head and happened to meet Phillip’s eyes; he wasn’t sure if it was for Sherlock’s sake or his own self-preservation that kept him rooted to the spot until Sherlock looked back at John’s friend.

A hopeless feeling gnawed at his gut.

Greg didn’t mean any harm, Phillip reminded himself. “Piss off, you bastard. Go eat something and take your chance with Molly,” he sneered, pointing to the mistletoe just outside the kitchen.

Greg blinked at him. “I,” he declared, “don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to get another drink. Water. Be back in a tic.”

He left Phillip to his own devices, his pace steady as he approached the table of food (and subsequently Molly). Sherlock returned to his side not long after, and kept by them for the next hour. He periodically stole Lily from Phillip’s arms, at one point attempting to carry both of the babies to the amusement of all parents involved.

Isabelle and Lily, when they were faced with each other, clearly didn’t know how to act. When Phillip took a brief interlude in Sherlock’s room, Mary joined him, and they watched the two interact. They did little more than imitate each other sounds, which was dutifully documented and photographed.

“Their cognitive development seems to be on the same level,” Sherlock said into his ear.

Phillip closed his eyes, willing his heart to keep pumping. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“It isn’t my problem that you weren’t paying attention.”

“Oh, so just for me then,” Phillip teased.

The look Sherlock gave him was so _fond_ that Phillip excused himself to the restroom to bang his head against the wall.

When he returned to the living room, there was more food and somehow a cat had got into the flat and was currently being adored by most of the guests.

By the time it was nearing nine, his arms radiated painfully hot from consistently carrying Lily. He wished he’d had the forethought to ask about where he might put her so that she wouldn’t be trampled, but on the same token he didn’t want her out of his sight. Sherlock was always nearby, but Phillip had distinct feeling that he would parade Lily like a prize if he didn’t keep his ego in check. He didn’t hold it against him—he was only an alpha—but it was irritating, the way he’d been hovering over his shoulder the entire time.

At one point Lily, who had clearly tired of constantly interacting with strangers, started to look a bit teary-eyed and smacked her lips. She gazed at Phillip as if to say, _Well?_

Right. He’d neglected to bring a bottle. _Idiot_.

He was about to excuse himself to the bathroom when John coughed, drawing the attention of the room.

“Hi,” he said. “Hello.” A pause. “So, um, happy Christmas everyone. Now that we have some time, Mary and I thought we could do the gift exchange now and get it out of the way so we can enjoy ourselves—and the gifts,” he earned a chuckle or two, “later. Gather round and get giving!”

Phillip paled. Sherlock hadn’t said a word about _public_ gift-exchange. He shot Sherlock a look that spoke volumes of this betrayal, receiving only a smug smirk in reply. _Bastard._

“Mate,” John whispered, shocking Phillip out of skin _again_.

“What?” he snapped, then immediately took a breath. “Sorry. I’ve—I was just surprised. Did you need something?”

John’s gaze was steady and disconcerting. Phillip refused to look down despite what his instincts screamed.

“I just wanted to let you know that you should talk to Sherlock, he—“ John pinched the bridge of his nose, signaling that something that Sherlock had done was about to give him a massive headache. “Talk to him.”

Puzzled Phillip was about to ask what he meant when Mary called John’s name and barely spared Phillip a second glance.

Gifts began to drift around the room. Phillip shuffled as close as he could without upsetting anyone’s position around the fire and stood by helplessly as the pile of gifts didn’t get any smaller and people were already dispersing, distracted by each other’s gifts. He clutched his own gifts tightly in his hand, waiting patiently, but Sherlock was just _standing_ there, watching the pile with palpable interest.

It was when Sherlock turned and maneuvered Phillip and Lily towards the pile that it hit him. These gifts were wrapped in the same manner, with the same type of card attached to each.

They were all for _Phillip_.

Sherlock brandished his first gift like a weapon, pride filling his chest. Phillip was once again reminded that Sherlock was an alpha just like the rest of them, and wanted to prove himself in what ways he knew. Even if it meant embarrassing him with a _mountain of gifts._

Phillip had little choice but to hand his carefully wrapped ensemble to Sherlock without looking and tear into the larger gift box. He was not surprised to find that there was a toy for Lily inside; it was another bee, only this time it came with a flower and had some sort of function that he would need to read about later. For now, Phillip thanked him and handed it to Lily, who rested in the Watson’s borrowed cradle, courtesy of Mary.

“Very thoughtful,” he said, meaning it. Sherlock was practical; anything more than that meant he actually _cared_.

Sherlock’s response to Phillip’s gift was far less favourable. His expression when he opened Phillip’s gift was so priceless that he wished he’d had the forethought to bring a camera. Phillip started smiling when Sherlock’s lips twisted as if he’d stepped in something particularly unpleasant. Then he snorted embarrassingly when Sherlock actually _tried on_ the antlers.

“You must be very proud of yourself,” Sherlock said, pulling them off to open the second gift containing the themed sweater. “Ah. Fetching. And humiliating, which was clearly your intention. Is that all?”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. You could do with a little humiliation,” Phillip said. A smile still played at his lips. “Actually, I’ve got one more. A real gift. If you want me to…”

He trailed off as Sherlock took the opportunity to reach towards the pile and pull out three more gifts that he shoved into Phillip’s hands, preening like a bird. A tall, pale, handsome, featherless bird.

“Sherlock,” he said more urgently, noting the stares that were being directed his way. “Really, what the hell is this?”

“A gift.” He rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Yes, but,” Phillip swallowed, staring at the assortment of boxes. “Why did you get so many?”

“To be opened and enjoyed. Isn’t that what one does with gifts on Christmas?” Sherlock countered. He watched as Phillip opened the small package to reveal a glass baby bottle. The nipple was soft and realistic and the make was so well made that there it must have been somewhat expensive. The thought of opening similar gifts filled him with abject horror.

“Are all these—?”

“Problem?”

There wasn’t, but. _But_.

“Look, can we—“ He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not do this here. If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna to go to the bathroom because Lily’s hungry and if she starts crying—I don’t even want to think about it.”

Panicked, Sherlock stood to follow.

“What did I do?” he asked.

“It’s not what you did,” replied Phillip once they were in the secluded hallway. “You were—ll those gifts are—good. It’s just a bit embarrassing to open a mountain in front of other people.”

“Phillip—“ Sherlock started.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.” Phillip held up a hand and turned to open the bathroom door. “I get it. They get it, too.” He waved his hand to indicate the other guests. “The way you’ve been hounding me and following us around…” he paused, working up the courage to say what had been on his mind all night. “What you’ve been doing, I understand. You love Lily and it’s—it’s very alpha. I don’t think anyone could doubt how much you care about her. You sound so _proud_.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“You think this is a case of _alpha_ _posturing_?” he said, sounding truly incredulous.

“Isn’t it?” Phillip snapped, pushing open the bathroom door with his elbow. A wave of bitterness washed over him. “You’ve spent all night proving yourself to everyone who will listen that she’s your daughter.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, then his expression abruptly cleared.

“Oh!” He slapped his palms together. “Jealousy. Of course. Obvious.”

He was not _jealous_ of his own daughter. “What are you—“

“Of course the toys would set him off,” Sherlock continued, uninterrupted. “And the ‘posturing’. Stupid!”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one talking to himself.” He grit his teeth, confusion fueling his anger. “Now what the hell are you talking about?”

Lily was already restless enough that he was considering ripping off his jumper and getting it over with.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock’s eyes trailed down his chest before sliding back up to his face. Phillip’s cheek filled with mottled color.

“You’re jealousy is misguided, Phillip,” Sherlock said, taking a step closer. The bathroom was small enough that it felt like there had been a significant amount of distance between them where there was now none.

“I’m not jealous,” he lied.

“And you’re wrong,” Sherlock continued, reaching out to brush a curl of Phillip’s hair around the shell of his ear. The feeling that had been growing in Phillip’s chest compounded, tight-knit affection and longing gripping by the throat, a force so sudden and swift that he found he could no longer move. He couldn’t even speak.

“They weren’t for her.” He cocked his head. “Well, technically their function will benefit her needs, but the reasoning was not intended to show how I am her biological father.”

“What?” Phillip spat. His heart betrayed him, pounding so hard that his vision was starting to wobble. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s smile was slow and warm, and when he leaned down, he made sure that he kept eye contact until their faces were inches apart.

“They were for you,” he said, using that low, sultry tone of voice that made Phillip want to melt. It was completely and utterly _unfair_.

“You know I care about you a great deal,” he continued as if that made any _sense_.

Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He was supposed to remain aloof and distant, not close and warm, his fingers moving delicately along Phillip’s jaw and throat. He looked down at Lily, the final barrier standing between them. If she hadn’t been there, Sherlock would be all but pressed against him.

“I. Um.” He swallowed, barely daring to breathe. As he saw it, there were two options: he could either a) ignore what signals Sherlock was sending, or b) finally ask the questions that had been hanging at the edge of his mind for the last few months, the last few _days,_ even.  

“Sherlock,” he started, hating the rough tumbling sound of his own voice. “I thought this was just an experiment to you. A case study. I thought it was Lily that you—” he paused, struggling to find his concentration with Sherlock’s scent so close, mixed with a perfume that must have been hand-picked the way it enhanced his already suffocating scent. “What are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, sounding _frustrated,_ of all things. “I have not only grown to care about Lily, but also you, Phillip.” His eyes flickered down, fingers resting at the base of his neck. “What I desire is not your favor, but _you_.”

Heat shot up Phillip’s spine. The thread that had been holding him back snapped, and it was pure instinct alone that forced his eyelids shut and bore his throat to Sherlock as he moved downward. His lips landed on the crook of Phillip’s neck, pressing down with the lightest pressure.

“Fuck,” Phillip breathed. _This can’t be happening._

He felt so, so weak against the sheer force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes, all sleek and sexy wrapped in a perfect package. Phillip felt like rubber as he was maneuvered to face the bathroom mirror, allowing for Sherlock to wrap his arms around Phillip’s waist and bring him even closer. Pulled against Sherlock’s chest, he was helpless to resist how the searing hot kisses he peppered along Phillip’s neck and throat, fingers dancing along his waist.

“Sherlock, if you’re—” he could barely speak, let alone _think_ , “if you’re not being serious I’m going to _kill_ you.”

“I am completely serious.” As if to prove this, he buried his face in Phillip’s throat, inhaling deeply. His tongue probed at the skin, teeth scraping at the place where their bond would have been. Could _be_.

It all suddenly made a horrific amount of sense. He should have seen it before. Sherlock never did anything by halves, and that included a proposition. All the gifts, the time spent together, the _date;_ it wasn’t just for Lily, but for him, too. He didn’t know why he’d been so blind, why he couldn’t accept that it was a possibility.

…Who was he kidding? He couldn’t accept the possibility because he was terrified of being wrong. To be rejected by the man—the alpha—that he had spent years of his life obsessing over would have crushed him. It hadn’t even been worth entertaining.

Yet he’d done it anyway. He’d foolishly fallen in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes.

A part of him was still waiting for the big reveal, the moment where his mind would collapse and he’d realize it was all a dream. The great and powerful Sherlock Holmes couldn’t want someone like him, could he? At least, that was what he’d always thought.

If he stepped back and analyzed their interactions, it didn’t seem so far-fetched. Sherlock had changed so dramatically in the last few months that Phillip would be a fool to pretend he didn’t notice any longer. 

It was when Phillip let out a quiet moan, and Lily gurgled impatiently, that he realized where they were, and what they were doing.

 _Oh fuck, shite, bollocks,_ fuck _._

However foolish, he wasn’t stupid enough to start a relationship in the Watson’s bathroom, however.

“Sherlock,” he hissed, “stop. We can’t do this here.”

“What?” Sherlock stepped back, sounding bereft, wounded. He blinked at Phillip incredulously. “You didn’t like it. No,” his voice went flat, “you clearly had a response, but you’re not interested.”

Quick as a snap he’d resorted to the age-old technique of deduction, a default that would allow him to analyze his surroundings without feelings coming into play.

“How could I be wrong?” He started pacing in the small space, gnawing on his lip. “All the variables were there, discovered and calculated for. Your pupils dilated, your scent picked up, and you exposed your _throat_ for me. How could I be _wrong?”_

Phillip didn’t really understand what was going on inside his head, but Sherlock was going to work himself up into a panic like this, and if he panicked, Lily might panic, and then Phillip would have to deal with _both_ of them.

“Sherlock!” Phillip yanked him close by his shoulders, shocking him into silence. This close, he was suddenly aware of the opportunity that was presented to him, and before he could overthink it, he crossed the scant few inches of space between them and kissed Sherlock.

Granted, it was a terribly messy, sloppy kiss that only managed to catch the corner of his mouth, but it served to stop Sherlock solidly in his tracks.

His eyes went wide. “You—”

“I’m interested.”

“Interested?” Now _he_ was the one at a loss for words.

“If you’d let me speak, you’d know that I am very interested in dating you, since that’s clearly what you were trying to say when you accosted me in this bathroom,” Phillip teased, half serious. “I just meant that we can’t do this _here,_ not that we can’t do it all. Because I—I’d like that, actually.” He licked his lips. “I would really like it.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Yes, of course. Stupid. Shouldn’t have done it, but I could hardly resist when you look so—” His gaze swept over Phillip, and for the second time that night Phillip was desperately praying he wasn’t pathetic enough to get a hard on from a glance alone. “Ravishing. That turtleneck does you wonders. And do you have any idea how you smell?”

He stepped closer again, and this time Phillip leaned into his embrace.

“It’s a wonder anyone can resist you,” he continued. “I hadn’t precisely planned for this to happen now. I expected at least two more hours of foreplay before I was going to woo you with my final gift—”

“ _Final_ gift?” Phillip interrupted, afraid to hear anymore. “How many are there?”

Sherlock blinked, the expression on his face speaking volumes to how ridiculous he found Phillip. It was a frightening prospect.

“I can’t accept all these gifts—”

“You can, and you will,” declared Sherlock. “They mean nothing to me if you don’t accept them.”

It was such an _alpha_ thing to do that Phillip immediately wanted to throttle him, but he was overflowing from a mixture of exhaustion and elation that his heart wasn’t really in it.

“I can’t believe you, Holmes.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They’re all out there probably thinking we’re mad. I smell like you, carried your daughter, you got me a mountain of gifts, and we’re not even _bonded_.”

 _“_ But we will be.” He toyed with the edges of Lily’s curly hair, his eyes dark.

“Oh, really? Do you powers include fortune telling now?” Phillip asked, shifting away. If he let it go any further, he wouldn’t be able to resist the man, and someone would inevitably come looking for them.

“I know what I want.”

 _Fucking hell._ Why was that so sexy? He’d never been one for the pig-headed alphas. Maybe he really was love-sick. That, or Sherlock’s scent was doing a marvelous job of convincing him he was.

“That’s nice, but we should probably get back out there, and I still need to feed Lily.” He rubbed the top of his chest, trying in vain to ease the pressure. “Forgot the bottles I had stored in the fridge, so if you don’t mind...”

There was a peculiar glint in Sherlock’s eye that Phillip didn’t like. “Can I watch?”

Throughout all his visits, Phillip never nursed in front of him. It wasn’t that he was against it, but Sherlock was intense at the best of times, and imagining his piercing gaze as he stared at Phillip breastfeed wasn’t something he actively sought after.

“Fine.” He pointed at him. “But don’t make it weird.”

“I fail to see how watching my own daughter breastfeed would be ‘making it weird’.”

 _Of course you wouldn't._ He stepped into Phillip’s personal space, going as far as helping him out of his sweater. Phillip kept his eyes on Lily as she latched on with great familiarity, trying to ignore the other set of eyes boring holes into his head.

Sherlock’s gaze was as intense as Phillip had expected. He couldn’t stop staring, but what made it even worse was that he wouldn’t stop looking at his breasts. They were a particularly sore spot for Phillip, who cared about his physical appearance far more than he let on.

“Do you really have to look at me like that?”

Sherlock blinked, eyes rising up to look at his face. “Like what?”

“Like I’m—” Disgusting, revolting—the list went on, “—some kind of sideshow.”

“I’m fascinated,” Sherlock defended. “Your breasts are larger than I calculated. Have you ever considered wearing a bra?”

Was Sherlock implying he had _calculated_ Phillip’s breast size?

“No,” he grit out. This could not possibly get any more humiliating. Why had he agreed to do this? “They’re not _that_ big.” He looked down at Lily. “Are they?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “They’re hardly noticeable with your current wardrobe. You should donate your horrendous sweaters and let me buy you much nicer things.”

“I like my horrendous sweaters, thank you. I get cold easily.” The fact that his chest was hidden was an added bonus. Phillip eyed Sherlock carefully, a thought occurring to him. “That’s not your gift, is it? An entirely new wardrobe?”

“No, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock replied. “I would at least have you fitted if that were the case.”

“Thank god for that,” Phillip grumbled. “So what is it, then?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

“Do I _really_ have to open all of them here? Can’t it wait?” He was all but pleading for Sherlock to let it be, but the grin that he offered Phillip was answer enough.

“Nope!” He stood, slapping his palms together. “I think I’ve seen enough, thank you. I’ll meet you outside, shall I? I need to make sure no one has touched any of your gifts.”

“Oh for the love of—Sherlock, wait!”

Then he was gone, leaving Phillip left feeling the absence of his presence keenly.

“This is going to humiliate me, isn’t it?” he asked his reflection. Judging by the flushed of his cheeks, he wasn’t entirely against it.

Back in the living room, the party was in full swing. Most of the gifts had been exchanged—quiet, intimate gifts meant for one or two people—which meant that the mountain still sitting innocently under the tree was gathering all the guest’s attention. Phillip could feel the gaze of the other guests every time Sherlock handed him another present.

“A…” He flipped the offending item back and forth to get a good look at it, “hat.” A very _expensive_ hat. “How lovely. It’s, um, charming. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock beamed. He must have been more than pleased with himself for providing Phillip with both gifts and attention. It showcased how deeply Sherlock cared for him that he would show off to his friends and coworkers in this manner.

And then there was the touching. If it hadn’t been made obvious that Sherlock was courting him, not even the most oblivious of people could have missed the way he prowled around Phillip, taking every opportunity to place his hands on his shoulders or brush his palm lightly across his neck.

He was irritatingly, ferociously protective, more than he needed to be. Every time someone so much as thought of approaching the two, Sherlock would be there to intercept, taking pains to direct their attention elsewhere.

For a Holmes, that was probably being subtle.

“So.” John slid up beside Phillip, reaching down to finger at the toy that he’d just recently unwrapped. It was a plastic doll that Lily would love to get her mouth around. “I take it something happened between now and the last time I saw you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Phillip replied smoothly.

It was a lost cause, and they both knew it, but that didn’t mean Phillip wasn’t going to attempt to direct the conversation somewhere— _anywhere_ —else.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sherlock so keyed up before. He doesn’t do _that_ ,” he pointed at Sherlock, who in the middle of gently steering a beautiful alpha woman away from them, “for just anyone.”

“You mean act like he’s been possessed by a demon?”

John laughed, settling down into the seat beside him. “I know all about the insanity of living with Sherlock Holmes, and trust me; this is him being kind. He could be shouting at them.”

“God, I hope not.” Phillip sighed. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. It’s hard to believe that this—“ he gestured to himself “—is what Sherlock really wants. He’s practically famous now. He could have _anyone_.”

It was testimony to the stress of the evening that Phillip was confiding in John, a man he still found very intimidating. It would have made more sense to open up to Lestrade, but he was indisposed by the snack table, a drink in each hand.

“Look, I’m not gonna deny this isn’t weird, because it is.” John leaned forward, palms flat over his knees. “But you’d be blind not to see how absolutely _mad_ Sherlock is for you.” He gestured to Lily. “Both of you.”

Phillip said nothing. He bounced Lily in his arms and reached for one of the dozens of toys for her to chew on.

Sensing his cue, John stood. “Right, I think that’s about enough heart-to-heart for tonight. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Snacks? We have plenty.”

“I’m not hungry, thank you.” He smiled at John. “Tell Mary thank you for the gift. The baby blanket is beautiful.”

“Will do. She made it herself, you know.” John’s chest puffed a little. Phillip had to restrain his smile.

_Alphas._

“Phillip!”

At the same of his name Phillip turned and watched Sherlock take long, purposeful strides towards the two of them, his eyeing John like he was a danger to the two of them.

“He’s your problem now, mate,” John whispered. “Good Luck.”

“Thanks.”

John shook his head, exiting just as Sherlock arrived.

“What were you two talking about?” he asked. It sounded suspiciously like an accusation.

“We were having a bit of civilized conversation, but I suppose that’s not something you’d know about. Seriously, Sherlock, can you at least _try_ to behave?”

“I am perfectly behaved. Civil, even.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that not enough?”

Phillip rolled his eyes.

“Right. We’ll just pretend you haven’t been acting like a complete alpha for the last half hour and nobody noticed.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked; the berk. He knew exactly what he was doing and what kind of signals he was sending out. Phillip hated how his heart fluttered in response.

“What time is it, anyway?” Phillip asked, glancing at his wrist. It was nearing ten, which was already past Lily’s usual bedtime. He considered leaving early, but hesitated knowing that Sherlock might want to stay.

“You wish to leave.”

“Huh?” Phillip looked over at him, now seated that John had previously occupied. Sherlock stared at Lily, the unmistakable glint of adoration in his eyes. “It’s a little early, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to be rude…”

“Nonsense. John would completely understand.” Sherlock stood, then knelt in front of Phillip, taking Lily out of his arms. “Let me take her while you gather your things. I’ll call a cab.”

“I take it you're coming with,” Phillip said, already knowing the answer. Sherlock smiled cheekily and strode off to find John and Mary.

Phillip rubbed the back of his neck. He felt absent without Lily, but somebody needed to clean up this gift mess, and it certainly wasn’t going to be Sherlock—he knew that much. After stretching his limbs to get the feeling back in them, he gathered all the wrapping paper that had been strewn about and placed it into a bag. The presents went into another bag, carefully marked so no one would mistake it for garbage while he went to grab his bag of emergency supplies.

“I think that’s everything,” he mumbled. “Guess that big final gift was all just talk.”

“Obviously I wasn’t going to give it to you here.”

Phillip jumped and spun around, floundering for a proper response.

“You’re…back.”

He nodded, raising an eyebrow at Phillip’s current state.

“Ready?”

“Yeah. Haven’t said goodbye to John and Mary, though. I should at least give them that.”

“Already did,” Sherlock said, steering him towards the door. “They understand the situation.”

“But Greg—and Molly—“

“Will barely notice that you’re gone. If you haven’t noticed, they’ve been drinking copious amounts of alcohol,” Sherlock finished, then leaned down to speak into Phillip’s ear. “I want you alone when I give you your last gift.”

Phillip shivered. The promise of what was to come made butterflies erupt inside him. He nearly felt sick with anticipation.

Then Sherlock’s hand landed on his lower back, and his crooked smile reminded him that this was the man that had tried to pick his lock over a dozen times, couldn’t remember how long it was until milk expired, and pretended to be dead for two years.

 _You can do this,_ he told himself, and stepped outside into the cool air.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How has it been this long?? Well here we are! Finally, Sherlock's efforts pay off!

 

Once they’d stepped outside, Sherlock immediately started to fidget. It was soon very clear that he had something he wanted to say, but Phillip wasn’t about to ask; he was still trying to recover from the evening. Plus, he had to make sure Lily had her hat on tight enough.

“What I said, earlier.” Sherlock wouldn’t face Phillip, but there was a contrite twist to his lips that made him believe Sherlock was trying to apologize and failing to find an easy way to do it.

“You said a lot of things,” Phillip pointed out. Lily shivered in his arms, so he refocused his attention, feeling her cheeks with his palm.

“When I mentioned we were to be bonded, that was overly presumptuous of me.” He said this quickly, almost without thinking, like it had been something on his mind all night. "You should come to that decision on your own, no matter what my desires may be."

A shocked sound of surprise was out of Phillip before he could help it.

That was another thing that had changed; in previous years, Sherlock and apologies would never have had reason to occur in the same sentence unless they were contradicting each other. Now Sherlock was known to give out the proper apology and admit to his mistakes. It was baffling how different he’d become.

Touched, Phillip tried not to let it show how much it affected to know that Sherlock had been thinking about his feelings, keeping his tone light.

“You? Presumptuous? Perish the thought.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Phillip teased, but at Sherlock’s look, his smile faded. “It’s okay, really, Sherlock. I know what alphas are like and the fact that you apologized to me is more than enough. It’s not like that’s something I would be _against.”_

He’d be a fool to not want to bond with Sherlock Holmes.

“Nonetheless.” Sherlock cocked his head at him, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. “It is truly your choice, should the occasion ever arise.”

“Thank you,” Phillip said, meaning it. He looked down at Lily and that same, heart-wringing emotion lodged itself in his throat. Suddenly struggling to keep it together, he kept his head lowered as he entered the cab, holding the vain hope that Sherlock would let him fall apart without saying anything to make it worse.

After Sherlock slid in behind him, he waited until Phillip was settled before he took by the chin and kissed him full on the mouth. Phillip’s eyes fluttered shut for a beat, his heart jumping into his throat and lodging itself there alongside his errant emotions.

Definitely making things worse.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice wavering dangerously. Sherlock smirked like he knew exactly what was happening and made no move to decrease in their proximity.

Philip couldn’t look at him. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back against his seat, staring out at the passing buildings, Sherlock a solid, comforting weight at his side.

 _What is my life?_ he wondered, not unappreciative of it.

They reached Phillip’s apartment in record time, thanks to Sherlock cajoling the cabby halfway through. He slid out of the car after wrangling Lily out of Phillip’s arms and then turned around, offering his hand for Phillip to take.

“I think the person without the baby is supposed to do that,” Phillip joked, oddly touched by the gentlemanly way he carefully lifted him out, closing the door softly behind him. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing. Then he paid the cabby while Phillip grabbed the giant bag of gifts and soon they were making their way up the steps to his apartment.

“You were unbelievably tempting in that cab,” Sherlock murmured the moment they stepped through the door.

Phillip shivered, and it wasn’t because of the cold. His heart was pounding. Sherlock and he were alone in his apartment with no more distractions; nothing was holding them back from acting out on their desires, ones that had been building for months, should his assumptions be believed.

“I should put Lily to bed,” Phillip said, and he was surprised by how even his voice sounded. “Without waking her, hopefully.” Or he’d never hear the end of it.

She was currently fast asleep, completely unaware of the tension surrounding the two of them. With Sherlock’s help, he made quick work of changing her out of her outer wear and into her pajamas. She only roused when they had to change her clothing, quickly falling asleep once she was settled in bed.

Phillip stared at her for a good minute after the fact, fingers gripping the edge of her cradle in some attempt to give himself time to think.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have sex with Sherlock—which certainly seemed end goal here—but he was so _nervous._ He wasn’t the picture of male beta excellence any longer. He was soft around the edges, and most of his old clothes barely fit him anymore. Sherlock by contrast was like sex on legs.

He felt Sherlock’s palm on his shoulder and exhaled.

“Phillip—”

“Do you want anything to drink?” Phillip interrupted, herding Sherlock towards the door and into the hallway. He kept his gaze firmly rooted to his torso. “I have coffee, tea, milk if you’d like—”

When he finally made himself look into Sherlock’s eyes, he was struck by the intensity of his gaze. He didn’t often display his desire so openly, and it—well, it was flattering. Phillip hadn’t felt wanted in a long time. Not like this, the way Sherlock looked at, like he wanted to devour him in any way possible.

Some of his hesitation melted. He stepped closer and opened his mouth, but before he could utter a single word, his back hit the wall and he was being kissed.

It wasn’t like the kiss at the party, which had been chaste, the promise of something more; nor was it like the kiss in the cab, carrying a sentiment he wanted to convey.

This was the follow through.

Sherlock’s lips were as soft as the thousand times Phillip had imagined them, and when Sherlock framed Phillip’s face with his hands and deepened the kiss, Phillip couldn’t help the quiet sound of pleasure that caught in the back of his throat. He felt entirely too warm all over, damp heat already beginning to build on the back of his neck.

“Sherlock,” he began, once they’d broken apart. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. The look that he was giving Phillip suggested he didn’t like the interruption and his hands were already moving, wandering the length of Phillip’s side, teasing under the edges of his jumper.

“What about my gift?” he asked, but even his own voice didn’t sound convinced.

“Later,” Sherlock said. Then he kissed the high point of Phillip’s throat, just under his jaw, encouraging him to bare his throat. There was little he could do but obey, giving him access to the length of his throat and, most important, the scent gland there.

Phillip sucked in a sharp breath, bracing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders as he kissed his way fervently up and down Phillip’s now exposed neck, paying particular attention to where his scent gland lay, rubbing his mouth over it delicately. Phillip was half hard already, hips slanting towards Sherlock, who didn’t hesitate to press him bodily against the surface of the wall.

“I have been thinking about this since I discovered you had given birth to our daughter,” Sherlock admitted, voice rumbling and deep, sending a sliver of heat shooting up Phillip’s spine. He laughed at the absurdity of Sherlock’s statement, but it was cut short when he pushed his hands underneath Phillip’s jumper, moving his palms up towards his chest.

He felt his face go hot at that. That was— he tried to push Sherlock’s hands back down, but he ended up laying them on top of them instead.

“Don’t,” he said, and it came out like a whine. “It’s—” Not cute. Certainly not sexy. None of his post-pregnancy body was in any way arousing.

Sherlock didn’t seem to be deterred by his hesitance. If anything it spurred him on to work harder, moving his hands all over Phillip’s side and chest, caressing his skin like it was something worthy of his attention and praise.

“You doubt your own appearance,” Sherlock observed, ghosting the words across Phillip’s sensitive throat. “You shouldn’t. You are perfectly adequate.”

“Thanks. I’m so glad I’m adequate.” He didn’t intend for there to be a bite in his tone, but it sounded surprisingly bitter to his own ears.

Sherlock looked him in the eye, brows furrowed with frustration. “You know what I mean. You are—” he moved his mouth, cheeks starting to flush, “more than adequate. Beautiful.”

Phillip didn’t know if he wanted to push Sherlock away or shrivel up and die of embarrassment. Maybe both.

 _I’m not,_ he started to say, but then Sherlock kissed him, moving his hands to the side. His fingers sought Phillip’s and he threaded them, brushing his thumb blithely across Phillip’s wrist. The simple, small movement of his thumbs rolling over his wrists send elicited a series of shivers from Phillip. God. He’d never been so turned on in his life.

“Sherlock,” Phillip breathed once he was able to speak. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather his thought with Sherlock’s very hard dick pressing against his hip. “We should probably move this to the bedroom. Don’t want Lily even _hearing_ any of this.”

Sherlock nodded, pulling off of Phillip with great reluctance. They walked the short distance to his room, which was still littered with a few dirty clothes and leftover packaging from wrapping Sherlock’s gift. Phillip scrambled to clean the area and was about to start making his bed when Sherlock pulled him away from fiddling with his sheets, hands splayed across his hips.

“Don’t bother,” he purred. Phillip managed a nod and didn’t protest when Sherlock manhandled him onto the edge of the bed, his groin in line with Phillip’s.

Then, before he could utter in a word of protest, he had pulled Phillip’s jumper over his head and tossed it to the side.

“Hey!” Phillip started, indignant, resisting the urge to cover his chest. He reminded himself once again that it wasn’t anything Sherlock hadn’t already seen, really, and if his face was anything to go by he didn’t seem unhappy at the sight of him. “It can’t be just me that’s getting naked. If you take mine off, I have to take off yours.”

Sherlock sighed theatrically, but he allowed Phillip to carefully unbutton his shirt and set it aside with his jumper, taking much greater pains to avoid wrinkling the silky fabric.

“Must have cost you a million quid for that shirt alone,” he teased. Sherlock snorted.

“Hardly.”

He smiled. “Just a thousand then.”

Sherlock rolled his gaze, and then gave him a look as if to say, _well? Are you going to sit here all night?_

Right.

Phillip refocused on the task at hand. Now that he had his hands on Sherlock’s skin, he couldn’t resisting giving him similar treating; he slid his palms up Sherlock’s sternum and then over his shoulders, gripping the muscle there firmly.

“You’re more built than I expected,” Phillip admitted self-consciously. He was gorgeous, all hard planes and flat lines. No six-pack, thank god, but his abs were nothing to laugh at. Phillip tried not to think about it as Sherlock pushed him back onto the bed and started mouthing over the top of his breast.

“If you can still speak, I’m clearly not doing this correctly,” he muttered into his skin. Phillip shivered.

“Oh, _please,”_ he griped, hoping sarcasm would cover up the waver in his voice. Sherlock gently nipped his left nipple in response, sending a jolt of through Phillip. He resisted the urge to yelp. Sherlock gave it another bite, a little harder now.

Phillip squirmed. God, the feeling of his mouth was so much—almost too much. His nipples had always been a bit sensitive after birth, but it was never like this.

Phillip bit down on his lower lip when Sherlock sucked his nipple into his mouth, rubbing it between his teeth. He swore loudly, swallowing down a tide of desperate noises that would only embarrass him further, while his hands kneaded Sherlock’s shoulders insistently.

Sherlock, as if sensing this, redoubled his efforts, pinching the neglected nipple between his fingers and rolling it—gently, like he knew exactly what Phillip was feeling.

Even for all his care Phillip’s eyes rolled back at the sharp sensation, shuddery little shakes working through him in waves. His legs came up around Sherlock’s waist, toes finding and digging into Sherlock’s hips every few seconds.

His nipples felt like they were being chewed on, but instead of pain, hot, prickling pleasure rippled through him and went straight to his cock.

“Stop,” he said, once he couldn’t take it anymore. He braced his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, pushing him away. “Sherlock, stop, _stop._ You’re killing me; they’re too sensitive.”

Sherlock pulled away immediately, flashing him a devilish smirk. “Then perhaps I should put my mouth to better use.”

“Huh?” Phillip blinked at him blearily. Without further explanation, Sherlock started unbuttoning his trousers, and that was when Phillip realized what he was about to do.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his hands hovering over Sherlock’s as if he might pry them away. But he hadn’t had sex in so long, and Sherlock’s mouth was just _begging_ to be used. He’d imagined filling out the line of that pout far too many times to think about rejecting it now, no matter how self-conscious he might be about his body.

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed overly eager, licking his lips when he finally caught sight of his cock. “Ah.”

Phillip hoped that was the sound of satisfaction and not disappointment.

“I did not have the presence of mind to collect data the last time we had sex. This should be a fascinating endeavor.” He closed his eyes briefly and breathed. “You smell delightful.”

Phillip smiled despite himself. A long time ago he might have taken offense, but he had come to understand how Sherlock showed his interest. To be called ‘fascinating’ by Sherlock Holmes was a compliment in itself.

Besides, it was hard to miss the desire written plain on Sherlock’s face. Phillip didn’t wait to help him tear off his trousers and underwear, using his freedom from being pinned by Sherlock’s body to shimmy further up the bed. Sherlock remained still where he stood, staring down at Phillip as if searching for the best place to start.

Suddenly he snapped into action, quick and decisive in the way that alphas were, approaching Phillip without hesitation or reluctance. He parted his thighs, dipping his head and placing a kiss on the inside of Phillip’s thigh; then, with care, scraped his teeth against the skin, feather light.

Goosebumps pebbled Phillip’s arms. Sherlock’s nose was a little cold, and he had always been ticklish; it wasn’t long before he was on the verge of laughter and trying desperately to hold it in.

When an errant giggle escaped, the look that Sherlock gave him was so indescribably _fond_ that the laughter died in Phillip’s throat. He swallowed, his cheeks suddenly burning.

Sherlock licked his lips, opened his mouth—

“Sherlock—"

—and swallowed his cock down to the root.

Phillip’s words were lost to a shout, hands shooting for Sherlock’s shoulders. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to push him away or pull him closer; he hadn’t had a blowjob in, god, years, and Sherlock was very, _very_ quickly undoing him.

Sherlock pulled back, taking him shallowly at first, and then deeper, moving forward until his nose was pressed against Phillip’s pelvis.

“Sherlock,” he started, voice coming out at an embarrassingly high pitch. Sherlock flattened his tongue and swallowed, effectively turning any possible retorts into a garbled moan. His hips twitched, the heat pooling in his stomach urging him to thrust into the hot relief of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Where did you learn,” he had to stop to breathe, swallowing lungfuls of Sherlock’s scent when seemed to make things worse, “to do that.”

The fingers on his left hand were wound tight into Sherlock’s hair, and it wasn’t until he let out a quiet moan that Phillip realized he was doing it.

“Sorry,” he rasped, putting it on the bedsheets instead.

Sherlock pulled his mouth off of him and licked his lips. Phillip tried not to come.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sherlock said. He cocked his head and made a curious sound. “I find a bit of pain quite pleasurable.”

“I—okay.” Phillip didn’t know how to process that without losing it, so he kept his hands where they were.

He wished he’d followed his advice early when Sherlock started alternating between kissing and licking his cock when he wasn’t taking him down his throat, hands working the base of it in a tight fist.

Then, when he did a particularly neat trick where he flicked the tip of his tongue against Phillip’s frenulum and reached up to pinch one of his nipples with his free hand, pleasure sparked and took flame, sending him into a hot, rolling orgasm.

He barely had time to warn Sherlock, who pulled off just as the first few waves of it bulldozed through Phillip. He was vaguely aware that he was making an embarrassing amount of noise, but Sherlock lapped it up eagerly, watching him with an intensity that made Phillip want to hide his face behind his hands.

“Fuck,” Phillip said once he found his voice. “Thank you. Really, you—what would you like me to do?” He glanced down at Sherlock’s crotch, eyes following the line of his cock bulging against the denim.

“Nothing. Don’t concern yourself over it.” At Phillip’s incredulous look, Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly. “I saw what I wanted to see. My own orgasm is hardly important; I’d much rather give you your gift.”

“Gift,” Phillip repeated, a little dumbstruck. Here he was, having just received a blowjob from an _alpha_ of all people, one that didn’t even want anything in return for it! It was completely outside of his realm of expertise that he could only stare dumbly as Sherlock used a tissue to wipe away Phillip’s come before reaching idly for his shirt.

“I feel like I’m missing something.” He glanced around the room and realized that the so-called gift was nowhere in their immediate vicinity. There hadn’t been anything in his apartment when he returned and he hadn’t noticed Sherlock carrying anything on their way to Phillip’s apartment. Surely Sherlock didn’t expect them to go back to the party after having left. 

“You didn’t just make up the thing about the gift to get out of having sex with me, did you?”

He wasn’t stupid enough to believe it, but there was a small part of himself that doubted Sherlock’s conviction. The sound of his voice must have given him away because Sherlock shot him a sharp look, pausing in buttoning up his shirt.

“I would like nothing more than to continue having sex with you,” he said casually, causing residual heat to flare up in the pit of Phillip’s stomach, “but I have been rather looking forward to your reaction.”

“Now I’m curious,” Phillip said, only slightly joking. The continuous mention of this gift had only slightly piqued his interest—mostly because he thought it was probably a lie—but when Sherlock mentioned that it was the reason he was holding back, so to speak, he really wanted to know what it was. It wasn’t a tangible thing, clearly. That, or it was so large that he couldn’t bring it with him.

That thought terrified him more than he’d like to admit.

“You haven’t bought me a house, have you?” he asked, for his own sanity.

“Of course not.” Sherlock flashed him a smile. “Much more exciting than that.”

“All right.” Phillip reached for his and pulled it over his head in a semblance of modesty. “Lay it on me, Sherlock. What have you got?”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered with excitement. He pulled out a manila folder out of seemingly nowhere—probably that damn coat of his—and brandished it like a weapon, holding it out for Phillip to take.

“It’s a….case file?” He grabbed it gingerly, as if it might explode, and blinked when he noted the title. “Why is my name on here?”

“Why indeed.”

Phillip’s eyes narrowed. “This is about me then.”

“Obviously.” He was practically bouncing up and down now.

Phillip swallowed. He carefully opened it to the first page, which consisted of a single sentence in a large font: _Letter of Reinstatement. Subject for review: Phillip Anderson, former forensics tech._

_What?_

That letter was at least a year old. It had been a half-hearted attempt to earn his place back with the Met, but his attempts had been met with steadfast rejection as soon as his name had passed through the door.

Why would they still have this letter? And how did Sherlock get a hold of it?

“Sherlock,” he said, willing his voice to remain even, “what is this?”

“Keep going.” He sounded incredibly impatient, hovering beside Phillip like he was on the cusp of shoving him out of the way and doing it for him.

With steady hands from years of practice, Phillip flipped to the next page. He read the words, and they registered in his mind in some way or another. He pulled out the next page and continued reading, then pulled out another. This went on for a while, silence stretched on building tension, and once he’d reached the end and read the part about his immediate start date, his hands finally started to shake.

“This is…”

He opened his mouth soundlessly. He wasn’t sure how to react to the giant bomb that had just been dropped on his head. Sherlock was looking at him intently, gauging his reaction, beaming like _he_ was the one receiving a gift.

He was so excited, and suddenly it was all Phillip could do to keep himself from punching him in the face.

Sherlock had gone behind his back, found access to his personal files, and did something so ridiculously, stupidly presumptuous and _thoughtful_ as to get him his old job back—without even asking him first.

This was so inexplicably, undeniably _Sherlock,_ and knowing him and knowing his thoughts on the matter, the urge didn’t last, but it lingered for a few long moments. Why couldn't he have just told him?

Then he realized, with sudden clarity, Sherlock had hinting at it all along. He’d suggested solutions, dropped hints, all but begged him to quit his current job, spouted nonsense about some grand favour he was owed, and then Phillip had treated him like he hadn’t known what he was talking about, when all along Sherlock had been hard at work trying to wrangle him his old position—one that had certainly been filled by equally as qualified forensic techs.

"How?" he asked. 

"You remember I was cashing in on a favour at one point. This was that favour. Ugh, _Mycroft._ "

Mycroft, his brother. And the favour. The one that Sherlock had mentioned in passing; the one that had something to do with his brother, the same brother with power and money; the one that could do things Phillip could only dream of. 

Like getting him his job back.

“I…I can’t believe it. You did it. You got me my old job back.” He swallowed around a thousand words trying to escape at once, settling on shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. How did you— _how?”_

Sherlock looked at him curiously, one eyebrow raised. He took the folder from his hands and sifted through the pages, reading over the text that Phillip had barely begun to absorb as if to understand what had Phillip affected so. “Mycroft is insufferable, but useful when the occasion calls for it. It was quite simple, really.”

“Simple,” Phillip repeated. He dragged his hands over his face. “I’m bloody dreaming, aren’t I? This is the part where I’m transported back to grade school for that Maths test and I forgot to wear pants. Oh my god.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, enunciating the ‘p’. He set the folder down and sat down in front of Phillip. “Completely legitimate. It was difficult to do so without your signature, but I was a master of forgery by the age of seven.”

That startled a hysterical giggle out of Phillip. “I can’t believe you. I can’t _believe_ you. How the hell—? I still don’t get it. You asked your brother to get my job and he just did it?”

“Not without a great deal of pain on my part.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But otherwise, yes.”

“Your brother terrifies me,” Phillip admitted, looking down at his hands.

He was still reeling, still trying to process what was happening. His hands were shaking, for Christ’s sake.

His job. _His job._ Sally, Greg—all of them. Bloody _hell._

Like the string holding him back had snapped, a sudden feeling of elation and pure, unadulterated happiness sank its claws into him and stayed there, simmering, warm.

Before he could overthink it, Phillip threw him at Sherlock, nearly knocking the both of them off his bed in his joy.

“You absolute _idiot._ I can’t believe you did this for me, bloody fucking hell.” He buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, allowing his scent to wash over him and solidify the feelings that had been burning a hole through his heart since the first time that Sherlock had forced his way into his flat. “I can’t believe—” He laughed. He was going to be saying that for weeks until it sank in. “I love you so much, Jesus Christ, Sherlock. What the hell did I do to deserve this?”

For his part, Sherlock had gone still the moment Phillip wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Then he slowly relaxed, and at Phillip’s declaration he sucked in a sharp breath, hands stilling on Phillip’s hips.

“Oh,” he breathed, sounding star-struck.

“You absolutely should have asked me first,” Phillip said, framing his face with his hands. Sherlock looked stunned, his mouth parted with surprise. Phillip kissed him soundly on the lips. “If it were anyone else, I really would have punched you.”

“But you are glad,” Sherlock ventured, a smile slowly spreading on his face. “Knew you would be.” He wrapped an arm around Phillip’s waist, lowering his mouth onto Phillip for a brief, but satisfying kiss. “That job was made for you, and you should be by my side, helping me.” A rumbled sound worked its way up the back of Sherlock’s throat. He went in for another kiss, and then another, his hold tightening possessively on Phillip. He shivered. God, work was going to be impossible from now on.

Work. With Sherlock Holmes. His old job!

…oh, god. His old job.

Panic was starting to filter through the haze of joy. He could hardly stand to stand to stay still. Phillip pulled out of their embrace and began pacing, his thoughts whirling inside his head.

“This is amazing, but—Sherlock, I’m not _prepared_ for this. What the hell do I do when I’m on the job and I can’t remember how to make the bloody cuts? It—It’s been too long.”

“It is meaningless to doubt your competence, Phillip.” Sherlock examined him curiously, at complete opposition to Phillip’s panic. “You cut up a cadaver not a month ago with barely anything to go off of, and did so perfectly. Why would your job, which includes a controlled environment and a handful of those there to assist you, bother you?”

“This is going to be a disaster,” he groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I’m not even sure I’m qualified anymore. I haven’t kept up with my subscriptions and my certification—”

“Is all taken care of,” Sherlock finished smoothly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Phillip whipped around and pointed a finger at Sherlock. “That’s easy for you to say! Your job is to bang around a crime scene until you’ve figured out who the culprit is. If I fuck up, it will only show them what it a mistake it was to take me back on!”

His vision swam a little. Phillip realized he was panting. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but it didn’t feel like any air was getting in. His throat felt tight, constricted by the force of breath forced through it.

 _I can’t do this,_ he thought, falling back against the edge of his bed. _I feel like I’m going to throw up._

“Phillip.” Sherlock’s voice filtered in through the noise. He sounded on edge, laying careful hands on Phillip’s shoulders. “Calm yourself. You will be _fine._ I have it on good authority that you are an excellent forensic scientist.”

“Oh, yeah?” He barked a laugh. “Whose?”

“Mine.” He tipped his chin up, challenging him to refute his claim. “I’ve worked with you for years. If I didn’t think you could handle the job, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

That was…stupid, at best. Foolhardy. Sherlock wasn’t qualified to hire anyone, let alone be the judge of anyone’s true character. And yet Phillip felt his shoulders relaxed without conscious effort. It was complete horseshit, but damn it, he’d never been able to resist Sherlock’s charms.

“You know that’s not how that works,” he said weakly. After waiting a beat, he laid his hand over Sherlock’s and pulled him close enough to kiss. “But it does make me feel better, somehow. You git,” he added for good measure.

Sherlock hummed, clearly satisfied with his answer. His slipped his palm closer to Phillip’s neck, brushing his thumb across the base of his throat.

A quiet sigh escaped Phillip. Sherlock’s scent had long permeated the small space of his flat, but this close, he could practically taste him in the back of his throat. He leaned into Sherlock’s grip, head tilting slightly, partially bearing his throat; it was an unconscious movement, one that made Sherlock’s eyes sharpen with razor focus.

“Phillip,” he murmured, leaning forward to press another kiss along his jawline. “Now that that’s out of the way—” He pressed into Phillip, who was suddenly made aware of something hard pressed against his thigh and—holy _hell_ , he was big, “—does your earlier offer still stand?” 

“Oh.” Phillip’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he said, licking his lips. God, that was—yes. What else could he say but yes to someone like Sherlock? He grabbed him by the hips, fingers seeking the lush curve of his arse. “Definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, I think. Also, more sex. Heat! Bonding! It's all gonna happen. 
> 
> Also also, getting back into the Sherlock voice after having essentially left the fandom is a bit weird. Not sure I've completely captured it but I'm enjoying it, so :)


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